My Ghost
by Arianna083
Summary: In the aftermath of the Opera fire, Christine discovers that her angel never truly left her. Yet now the dream has lifted, reality looms and secrets once kept in the dark must come to light. (E/C)
1. Chapter 1

I will keep you from the world outside  
I will never let you go  
I will be the thing you dream about  
Come to me and you will know...

 **~ Jasmine Thompson, "Adore"**

 **Chapter One:** Haunted Girl

* * *

"Such a pity really," drawled a sugared voice.

"Indeed poor thing!" gasped a second, artificial concern lacing every syllable.

"Upon my word, she looks just like a ghost; so thin, and those _eyes!_ They're enough to chill your blood! _"_ added a third disapprovingly, disdain heavy like the lingering clouds of perfume that saturated the stuffy air of the lavish parlor.

The first voice made sounds that might have been sympathetic—if not for the soft hiss and rattle of thinly veiled scorn—a snake coiled and deadly.

"I _completely_ agree, my dear. Is it any wonder the Viscomte keeps her hidden away? _Oh_ , when I think of what his dear Mama—God rest her soul, we were great acquaintances, you know—would have thought of her only son and heir pledging himself and his fortune to a _chorus_ girl!"

With a fluttering of lace fans, the three ladies continued to murmur contemptuously and cluck their tongues in hushed whispers. Not far from where they perched upon lavishly brocaded chairs Christine continued to stare out the handsome, elegantly arched windows heedless of the rain that obscured the de Changy grounds from sight, her own pale reflection all she saw.

Dark eyes gazed numbly back at her from the blackened glass, her white skin crowned with elegant curls dressed atop her head though a few still managed to escape to coil around her thin neck. The image was slightly blurred, and not for the first time she wished she could truly disappear behind the glass and enter another world. A world of ghosts; of shreds of memory, bright and consuming. It was the only existence that made any sense to her anymore. A mere reflection, a distorted dream, where there was nothing but shadows, half-whispered promises and _music_.

It was always there. Her head ached with the strains of a violin, a constant companion only she could perceive within her dulled mind. Tenderly comforting her. At times accusing her. Begging her, pleading. Drawing her to the edge of sanity, and filling her with the echoes of blinding longing.

She closed her eyes for a moment—just a moment—and welcomed the darkness that blocked out the fine sitting room, with its opulent furnishings and even more opulent guests. She imagined a great velvet curtain had been drawn across the whole false scene, muting the mingled sounds of conversation and laughter, the delicate notes of china coffee cups on plates and the rustle of long, fine silken gowns. Inky blackness greeted her like an old friend and she gratefully sought its comforting embrace.

As a child, the dark had terrified her.

 _Make darkness your light. It can be a blank canvas, filled with whatever you desire._

Words she remembered murmured against her ear—and suddenly comfort was replaced with pain along with the memory of black smoke, her own choked voice crying out the same name over and over, seared by the flames. She could still feel their heat sinking beneath her skin, burning away her heart. Opening her eyes once more she was greeted by the muted, candle-lit glow of reality. Murmuring voices, polite laughter and the scent of tobacco. People conversing about the weather, sports, gambling and of course the latest gossip. Rich, expensive perfumes cloying the air. Lace and finery. Glittering jewels and finely crafted brocades and silks. Another scene upon another stage, a perfect picture of refinement. Once, she might have found such things beautiful. Now, they were merely another reminder of how she had exchanged one deception for another. She tried to block out the voices, the laughter and civilized merriment, yet this duplicitous reality was hers and it refused to let her slip away into the realm of shattered hopes and dreams that all crystallized tantalizingly in the window's black glass.

"I hear she wasn't _just_ a mere chorus girl," said the second voice said in a loud, conspiratorial whisper.

"Are you referring to the sensation that was all the papers could speak of last season?" asked the third voice, eagerly. "About an Opera diva—the one with the voice of an angel they claimed—who left in disgrace at the height of her fame?"

"I do, indeed!"

" _No!_ You don't mean to say... _that_ little wisp of a thing? Seems hardly plausible, just look at her; one exuberant note might shatter her to pieces! You cannot mean _she_ is the Opera singer who— _goodness!—_ surely it cannot be the same girl!"

Christine could not help but hear the incredulity, clear and stinging in their words. An emotion—pride, then surprise that she had any pride left—flickered, stirring in a corner of her numbed mind.

"Yes!" interjected the first voice, authority etched in her tone. "She is the very same; Christine Daaè— _foreign,_ of course—the rising star of the Opera Populaire _,_ until tragic and scandalous circumstances forced her early retirement from the stage."

"And allowed her to ensnare a rich husband."

More tittering laughter followed this last comment, and Christine felt her indignation wither, and her heart ache with hurt. Was this the way her new life was to be? Constantly scrutinized and judged? Mocked and jeered at? Never accepted as a wife, but a mere _mistress_ with airs above her means? She felt a lump form tightly in her throat, but no tears came. Somehow, as unappealing and unjust as such a fate would be, she could not muster up enough energy to feel sorry for herself. How could she, when this life had been her choice?

"But you simply _must_ elaborate!" cried the second voice a little more loudly now, clearly riveted. "What circumstances could possibly be _more_ scandalous than a stage performer being courted by a Vicomte?"

There was a pause; then Christine heard the first voice, the eldest by its pitch, make a _tut-tutting_ sound. "Well...as you know, I am not one who indulges in gossip of the basest kind...however, I did hear from a reliable source who was there when it all transpired. She swears the fire that nearly destroyed the Opera House was _no_ accident! That it was, in fact, started by none other than a murdering madman—the infamous _Opera Ghost_!"

Christine's heart seemed to stop its aching beat—an image of the _murdering madman_ sweeping aside all else, stitching itself together within the forefront of her mind, pulling taut the threads of her waking dreams where she always saw him in the corner of her eye.

Now he burned within the flames she could never seem to escape, bright and devastating, imploring her.

 _Christine._

It was useless to resist; despite weeks of trying to let her mind rest. How foolish. She should know by now, after weeks of sleepless nights, that restraining his image was akin to holding back her own breath.

"You cannot be serious?" breathed the second, younger voice, clearly appalled. "So it is true, then? That beast who kidnapped her off the stage? How awful!"

His eyes had been such a startlingly clear blue—like the little rivers of home.

"The police never did find him, did they?"

Christine still felt his touch. His long fingers always stained with ink curling into her hair, around her waist, her throat. Dragging her back against his chest, threatening to pull her within his very being. Forever night, forever darkness, devoured by his passion, his devotion, his _voice._

 _That is the beauty of darkness; it can shroud you. Protect you. Give you everything you need._ His gaze, always so consuming had been fixated on her own dark curls, long fingers tracing them with an almost reverent devotion. He was her contradiction; dutifully tempering his impulses, only to sweep her away with the sheer hunger of his every glance, every tentative touch. His lips had brushed against her pounding temple as he sang to her, an imprint forever branded on her skin. His song still echoing in her blood.

 _Say you love me._

"Why no, of course not my dear! It is believed the fiend died in the inferno," the first voice said dismissively. "Yet _that_ is not the worst bit! My source informs me, and on no uncertain terms...that he was her _lover!"_

His mouth had trembled when she'd pressed her lips against it. She had tasted his tears.

"Oh, how horrifying!"

" _Stay with me. I know I am a monster, an unworthy beast...but for you...I will..."_

His fingers had shook when he raised them to touch her cheek with awkward gentleness, a shadow of a near smile on his malformed lips. It was an expression of worship and adoration—then suddenly, his features darkened. She felt helpless as she watched the shadow, the madness engulf him.

" _I will defy God...I will defy anyone who dares say this is a sin...that this is not love!"_

"Horrifying and debauched, to be true! My source tells me that the entire audience was shocked into a mortified silence—for just as he was about to whisk her off the stage, the girl unmasked him, revealing him to be the very devil himself! And then, she _caressed_ the monstrosity openly, wantonly! It was utterly shameful!"

"What kind of woman could debase herself so?" asked the second voice, not bothering to hide her obvious repulsion, "to even _speak_ to a man like that, let alone _touch_ him?"

Christine rose more abruptly than she had intended, but it couldn't be helped. Tears, mingled with devastating, consuming anger made all sense of polite decorum meaningless. Slipping quickly through a throng of oblivious laughing guests, she did not look back. She did not see the look of superior disgust on the faces of the three ladies who had purposefully chosen to sit near her, hoping their conversation would be overheard. The eldest smiled disdainfully, her eyes never leaving the distraught girl as she rose and left the room hurriedly.

Turning to her two companions, she shook her head disparagingly.

"What kind of woman indeed, my dear. What kind of woman indeed."

* * *

"Christine?"

She was floating; the sun beat down on her face, and she thought how lovely it would be to never be cold again. Perhaps one day they would come here together; and they would be happy. Yet... she remembered, he had always avoided the light of day.

 _You are trembling. Are you cold down here? Come to me. I will make you warm again._

As darkness threaded its way through her dream, she felt herself shiver. Then warm hands pulled her close and warm lips were pressing against her ear, along with the cool whisper of porcelain.

 _My love..._

"Christine?"

A gentle yet insistent knocking on her door roused her with a start, and through her disorientation she momentarily didn't recognize where she was. There was no cave, no sound of water lapping at a distant shore...no darkness.

It was bright, and blindingly so. Daylight flooded in through the open window, its curtains drawn back fully. She lay on a comfortable bed, and taking rapid, quick breaths she realized she was not beneath the Opera house. She was in a fine estate in the country, far removed from the glowing lights of Paris. She brought a trembling hand to her head.

The sleeping draught she had taken must have worked, if only for a few hours. After returning from the dinner party alone the night before she had been desperate to escape, to numb the rage that roiled in her veins. For weeks she had been an empty shell, with only the faintest flickers of emotion to keep her tethered to the earth. And music. It was there, ebbing and flowing in the very darkest recesses of her mind, constantly there. Sometimes it soothed; other times it seemed determined to torment her. Remind her of what—of _who_ she needed.

Who she would always need, no matter how impossible it may be.

An image forced its way to the forefront of her consciousness, of her fingers so gentle and rapt tracing their way across his cheek. It had felt smooth, then rough where he had not yet shaven. Real. Tangible, at last. He had leant into her touch as greedily as a vine instinctively seeks the sun. Now only a memory.

How she wished she could simply disappear within it.

"Yes," she called out to the shut door, knowing who must be on the other side. She took a deep breath. "Yes, Raoul, come in."

Immediately, the door swung open and Raoul entered, his face the picture of worry and concern. "Are you alright? You left so abruptly last night! I asked one of the maids to check in on you, but I wanted to be certain..." there was guilt in his voice, and she knew it was because he felt as though he had abandoned her amongst people she was not yet used to.

"Forgive me. I should never have left your side. I was trapped into a conversation about shooting with the Comte de Beauford—well, his brother is a highly respected magistrate—and I couldn't slip away. You know how it is."

Christine nodded mutely, and tried to summon up an understanding smile.

"I am glad to see you were sleeping, Lotte," Raoul continued more softly, entering the room and placing a single red rose on her bedside table. Christine smiled at his thoughtfulness, but didn't dare touch the bloom. Its presence brought back a vivid image of long, calloused fingers stroking red petals, of that same hand bringing a blood red bud to his masked face, drawing in its scent and cradling it with such tenderness, so carefully.

 _Poor little Lotte dreamed of everything and of nothing..._

Christine rubbed her fingertips against her forehead, which was throbbing with an ache mingled with the strains of a dark, smoke and velvet voice she could never seem to escape.

 _What do you dream, Christine?_

Raoul was gazing at her seriously, then sat down carefully on the edge of her bed as though afraid to startle a grazing doe. Gently, he reached for her hand and took it in his, giving her an encouraging smile. Grateful for the affectionate contact, Christine squeezed his fingers back appreciatively, and the images of a man cradling a rose to his lips and gently calling her name faded momentarily and became like mist—still present, but not as tangible.

"If you like, I can move you to a room in the south wing." Raoul said gently, and Christine tried to focus on him alone, but it was difficult to concentrate when her memories refused to remain within her own mind for long, and instead played out before her eyes. Shadows on the wall cast by a warm morning sun became a solid, recognizable shape; his hands folded behind his back, his jaw set with determination and what she know realized had been an attempt to control his worry and apprehension.

" _Does your room please you?"_

 _She had tried to formulate a reply but faltered, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of its design._

 _Unable to utter a word, she had gazed in wonder at the room before her. It was simple, and elegant. Everything was made of a beautiful, deep cherry red wood that looked as though he had carved himself. A rocking chair, an armoire engraved with trees and animals; thick, warm blankets on the bed, with over-stuffed pillows; a single red rose placed with care along their softness._

 _Then her gaze fell on the pots of bright flowers that graced every available surface, and the sight of them brought tears to her eyes and a tightness to her throat. They were all wildflowers from her homeland, in Sweden._

" _I planted only those specimens I thought you might have encountered." He said, watching her closely. "I...was limited due to the lack of sunlight. Yet these will continue to grow, and do quite well in the shade..."_

"You needn't stay here, so near the servant's quarters." Raoul was saying, and it was the unconscious and dismissive way he had said _servants quarters_ that drew her back to the present, and away from a hidden world underground.

"Thank you," she replied gently yet firmly, "But I...I like it here, very much."

Raoul glanced doubtfully about the small, modest bedroom. Its furnishings were made of a roughly carved wood, and it housed no crystal chandeliers or polished brass. His gaze was confounded, but he nodded all the same, humoring her.

"As you wish. Just know that in three weeks' time, _you_ shall be the Comtesse de Changy," he raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it. "My wife in name and title… and all the luxuries that come with it."

She knew he only meant to bolster her spirits, but his words only nurtured a growing sense of panic that made her head ache even more acutely. Luxuries, trinkets, titles, parties filled with people she did not care to know.

People who would present nothing but saccharine smiles, while discreetly sharpening daggers to sling into her back. Anger at what she had overheard the night before rose up in a scorching wave once more and she was both shocked, and more disturbingly, grimly gratified to realize that she had wanted to lash out at those women; to protect _him._

But he was gone. _Ashes, ashes._

How long could she protect a ghost? The answer rose up within her heart without a moment's hesitation: _Forever._

 _Your chains are mine._

Her gaze met Raoul's, and he smiled warmly at her. Hollowness seemed to creep back inside her chest.

"Now, little Lotte," he encouraged, "you shall take breakfast with me. Dr. Khan will be here in an hour, and when he departs I must tend to some business matters in Paris. So, we have little time to enjoy each others company today, I'm afraid."

He patted her leg affectionately, and in that one innocent gesture, Christine made up her mind. "I will join you in the dining room shortly, then." She said, careful to keep the resignation from her tone and expression. Raoul saw nothing. Smiling at her, he left the room whistling to himself, shutting the door quietly as he went. The sound of the door clicking shut was like the first beat of a metronome, echoing in her head and repeating the same words over and over.

 _What I love best Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed, and the angel of music sings songs in my head..._

Tears gathered in her eyes, but she pushed them away. Pushing herself off the bed, she swayed unsteadily for a moment. The sleeping draught Dr. Khan had prescribed did little to help her sleep, but always left her feeling woozy in the morning. Gripping the bedpost to steady herself, she caught a glimpse of something reflected in the mirror that hung above her armoire. Gasping, she lurched forward instinctually, one hand outstretched, her knees nearly buckling.

A tall, achingly familiar silhouette lingered just behind her—she turned, but there was no one there. Looking back to the mirror she saw only her own pale reflection, her eyes wide and shadowed with dark circles, gazing back at her. No tears came this time. Perhaps she was becoming parched and brittle. She dressed with shaking hands, careful to not look at her reflection again. Once dressed she slipped out of her room, down the winding staircase and out of the house, a hypnotic voice both lethal and irresistible promising both peace and ruin within the deepest corners of her soul, where desire still reigned.

 _He'll always be there singing songs in my head._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:** The River

* * *

She had no idea where she was going. She knew Raoul would worry, that she should not have lied to him, but she desperately needed to get away from the estate, if only for a few moments. As soon as she had escaped into the fresh air, she felt as though a weight had been lifted from her lungs. Some of the wooziness seeped from her bones, yet she found herself squinting in the morning light. Perhaps she was too used to the darkness now, to the dim, muted glow of candles that she lit to keep her company during the sleepless hours she lay awake.

Despite the inviting breeze, her head swam with lingering dreams, nightmares and visions.

 _Fire, ashes and smoke._

An empty ache so familiar now throbbed in her chest. Her heart was separate, beyond her reach. It still burned in a fire that happened almost eight months ago, and along with it her sanity.

" _Christine, we must leave!"_

" _I will not leave him! He'll die!"_

" _It's too late, he's gone!"_

" _No!"_

She had managed to break free of Raoul's arms, but as she stumbled through the antechamber of his once grand home, she knew he was right. She called to him, and he did not answer. He always answered her; always! Running through each room in turn, she had just reached the room that housed his beautiful pipe organ when an ominous crack sounded over their heads.

Raoul had been by her side in an instant, his grip fierce.

" _We have to go! He isn't here, Christine!"_

Coughing, she had called out once more, but her only reply was the deadly snapping and popping of flames that were beginning to lick the walls around them. There was smoke, and heat. Was this truly hell? If so, she could not leave him here.

Raoul had sought to find her help after the nightmares began, and she could no longer sleep. She knew he meant well, but she was doubtful a physician, even one trained in the maladies of the psyche could help her.

Her angel now lived within the tattered remains of her mind, and if that was the only way for her to be with him again, then that was the way it was going to be. Let them all call her mad—perhaps it was true. Perhaps it had always been true.

" _Clearly Mme. Giry...genius has turned into madness..."_

Christine remembered gripping the edge of the door frame, hidden from view but leaning towards the thin shaft of light that spilled through the door, which remained slightly ajar. Raoul's words seemed to reach her from far away. She had not meant to eavesdrop, but once she'd overheard his name, she couldn't stop.

She listened silently as Mme. Giry recalled her tragic tale of seeing a young boy beaten and caged for no other crime than the misfortune of his disfigured face. _The Devil's Child_. Spectators jeering, screaming, laughing. A boy struggling to reach a battered old toy as though it were alive and needed protection. A young ballerina, silent tears streaming down her face as his arm was wrenched nearly out of its socket, the dirty sack ripped off his head. The night that rang with the cries of murder. And Erik, a boy with no family. No one to care if he ended his miserable days at the end of a noose.

That night, she had returned to the fair. She had helped him escape, and brought him to the Opera House that had become his home. The only home he had ever known. Deep underground, where he was safe from persecution. Yet the boy had been insatiably curious. He was always seeking hidden places where he could observe the performances.

Though Mme. Giry had wanted Erik safe, he had wanted something much more. _Music._ The Phantom had been born, a guise, a role to satisfy inquiring and often superstitious minds. It was an excuse that was convenient when an instrument went missing inexplicably from the orchestra, or one could hear the strains of faint melody in the middle of the night.

Mme. Giry had sounded so stoic, so detached throughout her tale. Matter-of-fact. It was a strength Christine had always both admired and found intimidating. Now, she wished she could wrap her arms around her stern teacher and thank her for saving him. For caring about a terrified child who had no one in the world. Yet despite her gratefulness, her compassion at finally hearing what he, Erik had always strove to hide from her she couldn't help the shock that stole through her.

He had killed a man with his bare hands when he had been just a boy. She recalled those same hands, unusually large but with long, slender fingers stroking her skin with such tenderness. Such careful gentleness. As though he could never harm a soul.

Now the entire Opera Company was in uproar, saying that the _Phantom_ had murdered Joseph Bouquet. Hung him with the same rope that the specter had once used to drop a scenery prop on a mortified and enraged _La Carlotta._

She had been terrified the night of Bouquet's death. She had been there, on stage when it had happened—and when pandemonium had erupted her gaze instinctually shot straight up to the maze of catwalks in the wings. Hoping. _No. Please. It can't be._ His familiar figure, swathed in shadow remained for only a heartbeat before he was gone in a swirl of black cloak.

Her world had shattered. She desperately tried to gather the pieces, tried to put them back together into something that made sense. Was it true? Had it been self-defence? Or had he truly lost his mind? Her heart felt as though it were being torn in two, desperately trying to reconcile the man she thought she knew—the man who had guided her, been her truest friend and confidant—and the terrifying, cursed specter of the Phantom.

 _You heard him swear to kill Raoul if he came between you. To stop anyone who would take you from him. You've seen glimpses of his temper. You've seen the Phantom in his eyes, the promise of swift death to anyone who sees his true face._

Empty threats, she had once convinced herself. Empty threats from a man who wanted more than anything to exist in peace. To live for life. For love.

The people bumping and jostling her out of the way seemed far distant echoes. Turning, she had run. Run to the only place where she could think. The one place they had been able to be together and feel as though the stars, the heavens were their only welcome witnesses. Keepers of their secret.

Her mind raced as she ascended the rickety narrow staircase that led to the roof. She sensed no shadowed presence following her on her way.

Is that what the stagehand had done? Had he seen Erik? Nothing made sense anymore, and when Raoul had discovered her on that snowy rooftop she had confessed to her once childhood friend that her Angel, her teacher and confidant, her friend—scared her.

His temper, his jealousy and threats.

She had sought comfort from the one familiar person she knew would understand. The last link to her childhood she had, when things had been no more complicated than spending summer afternoons on the beach in search of mermaids and trolls.

She had not heard from Erik since that horrible night. Worried sick, she had respected his silence more because she knew she was too terrified to find out the truth. That he had murdered someone in cold blood. That she had mistook irrepressible passion for madness.

That she did not truly know the man she had let into her heart and mind so blindly.

And then, the masquerade. His presence, absent for so many weeks had been intoxicating; a connection that everyone had seen clear as cut crystal on that fated night.

Raoul's raised voice startled her, his deeper timbre at odds with Mme. Giry's quiet tones. She had never heard him so angry. Scared. He insisted that something must be done. It had to end. Horror, like slow poison leeched its way through her veins. She heard Mme. Giry, in an uncharacteristically pleading tone beg for mercy on Erik's behalf.

"He is a genius, monsieur! He would not have murdered in cold blood. There must be another explanation; it is not in his nature—!"

"Not in his _nature_? And yet you admit yourself he killed a man when he was a mere boy," Raoul had argued, angrily. "You knew of his violent past, and yet you let—no, _encouraged_ him to pursue Christine! Do not think me so easily led, or that I am blind Mme—I know exactly _who_ she gets those red roses from!"

"You do not understand, monsieur! Yes, Erik killed a man—but if you had s _een_ what I had— a boy living in filth, beaten and starved! He didn't kill a _man,_ monsieur. He killed a devil who had tortured him for years. I _know_ he is not a criminal! Reckless and impulsive; passionate to a fault, yes. He is not like other men, for he has never had to chance to learn, and solitude can drive one to great mistakes. Please, do not do this!"

Christine's leaned as close to the door as she dared, straining to hear more.

" _Mistakes?_ How do you know he did not kill the stagehand, as you say, in cold blood Mme.? How do you know he will not kill again until he is stopped?" Raoul's voice was upset and suspicious.

"I simply know. Your plan to ensnare him will not work. And it will only lead to more suffering and tragedy. Please, monsieur I beg of you. Let it be! Let them be together—"

"He is a madman! Whatever you may say, I feel for his tragic past but that does not excuse his actions! I am bringing him down, Mme. With or without your help."

"Then tell me, monsieur...how exactly do you plan on capturing a man who has evaded civilization for more than two decades?"

Christine's heart had constricted painfully as she listened to Raoul's plan. It was crude, and would have had no chance of success except for the exploitation of the dreaded Phantom's one and only weakness.

 _Her._

Christine had moved silently away from the doorway, from the voices that were now engaged in a hushed argument. She had come to her decision. If she was honest with herself, it was a decision she had made weeks ago. She had to see him again. To touch him. She could no longer stand to be parted from him, and she had to warn him. Make him see reason. His rivalry with the Vicomte had escalated to the point where his very life was threatened, and she needed answers. She only hoped he would listen.

Raoul was a different story—he had watched her ever since their reunion become more and more elusive, with secrets and lies the only substance between them. Once, they had been the best of friends, and told each other everything. Now, her secrecy had led to so much suffering. She had tried so diligently to protect Erik's secret, his existence. She realized now just how much their continued relationship had cost. Erik's jealousy, his need to be with her had made him unpredictable and reckless—and Raoul was going to try and use her as bait to lure him out into the open. To catch a criminal. Yet after weeks of separation, her heart still could not reconcile the man she had come to know with that of a cold-blooded killer.

Yet Christine could not let go of the faith pounding in her heart, with her every breath: he is _not_ a monster.

Repeating this over and over, she vowed she would prove it. She would put an end to this madness, for she would not let him throw away his genius, his life for her.

Reaching her dressing room, she slipped inside and shut the door, locking it out of habit. Her eyes roamed the familiar divan, still bearing the remnants of her last costume. The dressing table, filled with powder puffs, perfumes and stage makeup—and something else. Her breath caught, and time for the moment seemed to freeze. A single, blood-red rose. She didn't realize she was trembling until she reached the table and picked it up with shaking fingers. He must have only recently been in her room. Somehow, she knew he was not behind the floor-length mirror that served as a portal to his underground realm. The darkness, and damp. Was it a prison, or a sanctuary?

He had not left her a rose for weeks. Was this his way of reaching out to her? If so, she needed to warn him quickly of Raoul's intentions.

Hands still shaking, she resolutely opened drawers of her dressing table, acquiring paper, ink bottle and pen. Scrawling a note as quickly as she could, she raised it to her lips, and thought of his deep, steady blue eyes. Eyes that had known so much suffering.

Hurriedly, she concealed the note down the front of her bodice before whisking out of the room intent on asking the one person she knew she could trust to deliver it to him without question. When she had reached Mme. Giry's office, Raoul was gone. The older woman had her back turned, her shoulders bent in a rare moment of exhaustion. She turned before Christine could utter a word, and what passed between them was both unspoken and completely understood.

Christine held out her letter, and Mme. Giry's eyes softened before she gave a curt not and took it without comment.

* * *

The sensation of her muscles aching as they propelled her forward brought Christine back to the present for a moment—her legs had carried her a surprising distance from the de Changy estate, but she had no concept of time as memories continued to wash over her.

She remembered waiting beneath the ground, in the cold and damp catacombs that littered the underbelly of the Opera House. She was shaking; Mme. Giry had delivered his response to her note with the simple reply of: "Yes, he will come."

Those words had changed everything. In the weeks they had been apart, the world had become gray, drained of colour and sensation. People smiled kindly, and offered their congratulations—so young to be such a popular diva!—and she would smile mechanically back, thanking them while her heart slowly, inch by inch turned to stone.

Her mind flickered back to the disastrous masquerade ball, the only time she had caught a glimpse of him since that horrible night of Bouquet's death. Brilliant eyes the shade of an ocean storm had burned past her skin and bone. Fierce, vengeful. Pleading. Those eyes haunted her every moment.

His sudden presence at the festivities had been as violent and shocking as pistol fire. She recalled how the masked guests had gasped and scurried away; how they _feared_ him. And how he reveled in their terror, resplendent in his defiance, his fury.

She had gazed at him as though nothing else existed. Making her way through the retreating crowd, she approached him slowly as though still half-waking, in a dream.

 _If pride will let her return to me, her teacher._

She dimly remembered hearing gasps of shock and horror—so it was true, and now the whole Opera Company knew it. She had been tutored, gilded and molded by the dreaded _Phantom_. Their secret was laid bare, and as she stopped before him she felt as though its death had also stripped away every layer she possessed, until there was nothing but her soul straining to reach him, beyond cloth and flesh, and bone.

His gaze had burned, but she devoured it. He was there, tangible, and suddenly she saw every crack in his seemingly impenetrable role as malicious specter. His chest rising and falling rapidly; his eyes, too bright and intensely focused on her face; the way his hand had trembled almost imperceptively on the hilt of his saber.

He played a role, and so did she.

After too many weeks apart, they drew toward each other like water to parched soil, drinking each other in, oblivious to the gasps that had turned to murmurs of confused curiosity. Curious indeed, for the ever watchful guests were beginning to realize the gravity of what they were witnessing—a man and a woman so undeniably, shamefully _intimate._

Heartbeat pounding, senses singing, he brought her back to life effortlessly. And when his hand had reached out to her, snatching the promise ring and tearing it from her neck, she hadn't even defended herself.

" _Why did you let him, Christine? Why did you let him touch you?"_ Raoul had asked, bewildered, and angry. He had tried valiantly to hide it, but something was shifting between them, some shadow in his eyes that lingered whenever he looked at her. As though he were truly seeing her for the first time, and she both confused and slightly scared him.

"I cannot marry you, Raoul. Even if the engagement was as you say, for my own protection. More lies. I cannot."

"That ring was a promise, Christine," he had explained, thought there was desperation she had never seen before etched in his usually kind face. "Only a promise...that you will never have to be alone. Never have to fear anyone or anything ever again. And perhaps, one day you will come to love me as I love you. I only wish to take care of you. Please. Take your time, and consider my proposal."

She had not wanted to accept Raoul's token at first. She feared that when she had relented, it had been more out of guilt that she had lied to him for so long then a true change of heart. She valued their past, their friendship. But she didn't love him. She'd worn the ring around her neck, and its weight had been grave.

And now Erik had it. Erik, who when he had seen it, radiated rage and utter despair.

 _You belong to me._

A rough, hoarse growl. His beautiful voice transformed into something she had only ever glimpsed simmering beneath the surface. And now she waited for him, waited on the brink of sanity. Her note had been explicit—at least, explicit to someone who knew its code. It gave no words of apology, or regret. Only need. She _needed_ him.

 _Say you'll meet me_

 _When the day is o'er_

 _Within the orange bower. . ._

Words taken from _The Marriage of Figaro._ What used to be a game, a tender secret between them was now a matter of life and death.

 _The curtain falls—his reign will end!_

Her heart beat down the minutes, the seconds. Drawing icy air that permeated the dank catacombs into her lungs slowly, she released a deep, shuddering breath and watched it crystallize into a dense cloud of mist. She shivered.

"It is cold. You should have brought a cloak."

Her whole body seemed to freeze solid, even as her heart beat against her chest wildly—a struggling bird trying desperately to take flight, and wing back to its master. She clenched her jaw tight. He was behind her, and although he had spoken softly, his voice echoed through the dimly lit chamber. It was smoke and flame, rough yet unbearably tender. A silken cord binding her, enticing. And she, barely aware that it was sinuously closing around her throat.

 _Your chains are still mine._

"I am glad you came," she replied, ignoring his concerns. She knew he meant them, and it was this outward display of kindness and thought to her well-being that solidified her resolve once more. _He is no monster._

"I will always come," he replied softly, the words a gentle and unabashed caress. He had never hidden his obsession. Even now, after so many months apart, he seemed to revere and worship it. "I was most grateful for your note," he continued doggedly. The words grated against his throat, as though he had not spoken a word since their last encounter. A self-imposed vow of silence; a penance. It was too much. Whereas moments before his appearance she had been so detached, so numb, now she felt filled to the brim with emotion.

It was always the spell he cast upon her.

 _I feel..._

She turned toward him, caught in the irrepressible tide and found his shadowed figure, their eyes meeting.

 _I feel._

She did not know who moved first. Perhaps they were both so irrevocably entangled within each other that it no longer mattered. For one glorious, terrifying moment she thought to hold him, to reach out and wrap her arms around his dark form and bury herself within him forever.

He stopped inches from her, his entire body taut and fairly vibrating with repressed tension. A string wound too tightly, his fists clenching reflexively. He wore no gloves. She could see the black ink stains on his left index and middle fingers. He had been composing recently.

She wondered if he still kept the worn, over-stuffed and ancient arm chair he had procured for her to sit in while he worked. Simply to have her near. Sometimes, when he was too exhausted to continue, she would read to him. He had a vast selection of old, battered leather-bound books stacked on the floor in winding columns that were nearly as tall as she was. Everything from poetry to works of science and history, and some that were simply filled with maps. It was not a conventional library, but she loved pursuing it and he always seemed so pleased when she would curl up with a volume in her lap, eagerly running her fingertips across the time-worn, yellowed pages. She had owned very few books throughout her life, as she and her Papa had traveled far too often to burden themselves with heavy tomes. She still retained a few of her childhood books however, Swedish folktales lovingly preserved, and would often bring them with her when she came to visit. Sometimes, he would tentatively request she read a specific volume to him.

His favourite had been the tale of a brave princess who dared to conquer a grizzly troll who lived in a mountain of glass. She had always felt a tender pride that her voice seemed to soothe, as well as invigorate him. The memory brought a sudden wave of panic.

He was here. He had come. Now, she had to save him.

"They want me to aid in your arrest," she said, her gaze roaming unconsciously over his face. She drank in every detail, every clue as to his life without her. His cheek was recently shaven, although frown lines cut more deeply into his pale skin and his eyes looked even more sunken than usual. He looked ill, she realized. Had he eaten at all over the past three months? Had anyone made sure he had eaten and slept, or had he simply lived at his piano, devouring parchment with a ravenous appetite that could never be quenched? His genius was a razor's edge—she had been witness to his abundant creativity—always burning, threatening to reduce him to ash.

She had drawn him back from the flames too many times to count.

"Raoul and the managers," she continued hearing the hoarse, scratchy timber of her own seldom used voice. They had spent too many hours, too many days and nights apart—they were both slowly withering, parched without the other. Soon, they would both be nothing but dust.

"He has contacted the gendarmes, and they are devising a trap for you."

He was watching her speak, sea-grey eyes feasting upon her features as hungrily as she was scrutinizing him. His expression was troubling; he did not look like a man whose freedom and life were hanging in the balance. His chest heaved, breaths rapid, a kind of ecstasy illuminating his too-pale face.

She imagined him closing the meager distance between them. She imagined the heat of his kiss.

Once, his controlled reserve in her presence had allowed her to remain cossetted within her natural shyness. Then, as their intimacy deepened, her curiosity and growing desires sought out every crack in his armor, coaxing it open and utterly destroying his carefully constructed guises. _Angel. Maestro._ Then there was only _Erik._ When his overwhelming intensity was revealed, she had gloried in it—the rush, the consuming need that burned away all reason. How reckless she had become. He looked mere seconds away from claiming her lips, control fraying and snapping and she wanted him to, so badly it was a physical ache.

Yet she _had_ to warn him.

"Do you understand?" she pressed gently, all too aware that Erik was not like other men; not like anyone. His undivided focus was all-consuming; an overwhelmingly intense experience, yet there were times when his mind wandered and he seemed to be somewhere else altogether. There were even times when he seemed confused by ordinary things, and she would have to repeat herself a few times before he seemed to grasp what she was saying. It was a startling contradiction to the sharply articulate man who could quote entire passages from any book in his vast library from memory. Christine had always held an unwavering patience for his eccentricities, but now time was slipping away and she was determined to make him realize the gravity of the situation. He said nothing, lips parted and slivers of white mist escaping into the air between them.

"Erik," she breathed, desperate. "They will kill you."

When had her hands moved to curl into the sleeves of his coat? His gaze became something darker, something wild. Without a word, he unbuttoned his black woolen over-coat, slipping it off his shoulders and wrapped it around her carefully. Warmth instantly embraced her followed by the heady rush of his scent. Her head felt light and weightless. Without his coat, he looked thin, his once intimidating, broad frame reduced to a bony fragility that at once stirred her compassion and concern.

He reached for her hands and encased them in his infinitely larger ones, rubbing them gently to warm them. His touch held a slight tremble, as though she were made of spun-glass. Her words still hung between them, icy and forbidding. _They will kill you._ Still, he did not reply but brought her hands to his lips, where he blew across them gently. His hot breath sent rippling tingles of sensation racing beneath her skin. Then, carefully, almost shyly, he pressed his lips against her fingers.

Her heart broke. Tears she had promised she wouldn't shed filled her eyes as she moved closer to him, close enough to that she could press her own lips against the heated flesh of his hands, where they still clasped hers.

Her touch seemed to and revive and break him at once.

" _Christine,"_ it was an exhalation, a prayer, a plea. Gritty, rasping. He pulled back to gaze down at her, eyes bright, unable to look away as she continued to kiss the back of his hand.

"Don't do this," she spoke into his skin, softly. Imploringly. A terrible realization solidified within her—he'd known. He'd known it was a trap; of course he had. Had he been concealed in the very room as they had plotted his downfall? Had he watched unseen, concealed on the rooftop, or within the little chapel as she had confided to Raoul?

 _What I used to dream, I now dread._

He knew that being near her, being her _Don Juan_ was a death-sentence. And she, his _Aminta_ had foolishly thought she had come to warn him, to save him.

 _I was condemned the moment I saw you._ His words, spoken in anger and pain on the night he had demanded that she never see Raoul again. The moment she realized she had made a fatal mistake.

She had fallen in love with him. Her angel. And it was impossible.

"You came to warn me," he said without fear, no determination of survival. Only adoration. He smiled down at her—a rare thing—yet not for the first time since she had seen his unmasked face, she saw the shadow of madness in his eyes.

 _I surround myself with broken things..._

Then his gaze dropped to her mouth, and the shadow became tangible. Sliding his hand from hers, he reached into a pocket of his woolen over-coat which was still draped across her shoulders. Her heart skittered as she felt his hand brush against her ribs. Slowly, he withdrew something small. Clutching it carefully as though it were a living thing, he opened his palm. There, Raoul's ring caught the dim light of the catacombs, a star plucked from the heavens and dragged beneath the earth.

"Unholy I consider the vow that binds without love," he said softly, though his voice shook with emotion. Christine recognized the libretto. Their secret language, their code.

Sometimes, when his penetrating focus abandoned him it was the only way he seemed to be able to communicate. She knew he referred to Raoul—to the proposal he knew was false. He had confronted her with the truth on the steps of the grand foyer, during the fated masquerade. Unearthly, an ancient God swathed in red, his black mask a skull, he had looked like death, fearsome Hades, ready to claim her.

And she had been enraptured, a month to a flame for all to see.

" _While I live, you are mine. You belong to me!"_ he had sworn. Yet Christine had known the truth of his words: _I belong to you._

She had gazed up at him with everything unsaid glowing in her eyes, oblivious to the party guests surrounding them. His unflinching stare had dropped to her lips, which began to form the first true smile she had felt in ages. _She felt._ His spell was cast. What once had been hollow, now filled, a dam broken. And he, playing the part of vengeful _phantom_ to perfection, could not hide his adulation. He would conjure her passion, and she would strip him of every mask he crafted until only love remained.

... _while I live._

"Erik, you must leave. Before they find you," she tried now to sound firm, to keep the plea from her voice. Like Mme. Giry. Strong. Unmovable. She was the fighter now. She was his Valkyrie, his protector. "I have said I will help them, but only to bide you time to escape. They are becoming suspicious. I do not know how much longer I can keep them away—"

"Let them come," he said, absently. He was gazing at the ring in his palm. It was delicate, yet opulent. A ring fit for a Comtesse. Slowly, as though movement pained him, he took the ring and gently slipped it onto her finger.

"I should not have taken it from you as I did." He held onto her fingers. His hands dwarfed her own and he gazed at the ring with misery before turning her hand over and pressing a butterfly kiss to her palm.

"Erik, you must go—"

"I do not fear death. If my crimes are to be avenged with blood, I will pay it. You needn't have worried about me. You tried…" he let out a short, disbelieving breath against her skin.

"You thought _I_ was worth saving…" he kissed her palm again. "…my angel," he murmured, cradling her hand against his bared cheek. His skin felt scratchy against her fingers where he had shaven. She pressed her palm against his face, and he had begun to shake almost imperceptively.

The proof of his torment, that her touch still affected him so profoundly was overwhelming.

"I _am_ going to save you," she promised with such sincerity that his eyes slid shut as though her words brought him physical pain. Slipping her hand out of his grasp, she boldly cupped both his cheeks, warm flesh and cold porcelain. "We will think of something—and you have no say in the matter, understood?"

He said nothing but opened his eyes, though it took a moment for him to meet her burning stare. He seemed to be desperately memorizing every facet of her face, every crease and freckle. Something lit within his gaze. His whole face seemed on the brink of something, but it never manifested on his features. His eyes, always so expressive spoke volumes. They spoke of awe, bewilderment and undeniable trust. They spoke of suffering, and crippling doubt.

When had they become each other? A being inseparable, two such different minds with one heartbeat.

"Can I just—" he began, faltering over his words. Need making his throat dry, his voice hoarse and rasping. He swallowed, clearly trying to master himself. For her sake. Instinctively, Christine brought his hands to her face, letting him touch her, nuzzling his palm as he finally released a shaking breath. His thumb traced her mouth.

She couldn't recall how long they had remained lost in each other.

* * *

The sound of waters lapping gently drew Christine back from the vivid memory of his touch. Realizing she had walked so far she could no longer see any sign of the estate on the horizon, she saw the shore of a river just a few feet ahead. Enormous black willow trees bowed low as though to protect its beauty. A secret place. Mechanically, Christine began to take off her boots, and shed her dress. Once she was clad in only her chemise, she waded into the cool waters and sighed with relief.

The stark sensation of the cool water against her warm skin seemed to wash away some of her feverish thoughts, soothing her gently.

The riverbed was stony, but her feet were able to keep purchase as she sunk lower into the water and then turned, to float on her back. The sun beat down on her face, and for a blissful, complete moment she imagined he was there, floating beside her. He would relish the feel of the warm light on his skin, his face free of the mask that caused him daily pain.

They would both be free.

She would hum them a tune, and he would accompany her until she fell silent and simply allowed his mesmerizing tenor to draw her into a deep, _deep_ sleep...and it had been so, so long since she had last truly slept...

Hands were gripping her roughly by the arms, and suddenly she was on the shore of the riverbed, coughing and spluttering as water was expelled from her lungs. Blinking water-logged eyes, she felt panic grip her by the throat. The sun was gone, it was darker out. Had she fallen asleep, floating there in the river?

Two clear blue eyes penetrated her confusion, gazing down at her with more worry and panic than she could ever imagine feeling in one lifetime. His face was blurry, and the bottom half was covered in something dark—a scarf? But even as she continued to cough and gasp, her heart leapt in her chest; it had returned to her, whole and filled with incredulous joy.

"Erik?" she managed through her watery throat, wanting to reach out, to make sure she wasn't still dreaming. How she hated her own mind! How dare it mix memory, dreams and nightmares together so she couldn't tell reality from their intangible design!

He said nothing, and she suddenly felt her body leave the ground. His arms were tight, almost gripping her to excess as he made his way up the bank and back towards the estate. Christine tried battling her traitorous body into speech or movement, anything to confirm what her heart already knew, but shock was settling in and she began to shake uncontrollably. His grip tightened even more. Closing her eyes, she tried to regain control of her shuddering breaths by resting her head against his chest; she could hear a heartbeat there, fast and strong.

"Christine!"

 _Raoul..._ she could hear him in the distance. Suddenly she was being set down, and his arms, which before seemed like nothing could ever entice to loosen their hold, were gone. She tried to speak, to reach out to him but she couldn't move. A bone shaking, numbing cold was racking her body and all she could manage was a watery sound of frustration from her aching throat as she tried to locate her saviour once more—but he was gone. Seconds later, Raoul was knelt at her side, arms wrapped around her.

To her embarrassment, Christine had not only not been able to walk home, and therefore had to be carried by a terrified Raoul, but once they entered the house they were accosted by people left right and center.

"Fetch me towels, and some hot water!"

"We must get her out of these clothes, she's soaked to the skin!"

"Fetch Dr. Khan, now!"

Christine's eyelids felt heavy, and before she could speak a word they had closed, and all was darkness. When she awoke, she was in her room once more. She was dry, and settled in her bed which was piled high with every blanket in the estate. Her forehead felt clammy, and she tried to sit up. Her head spun dangerously, and she was forced to retreat back to the pillows, leaning back and gathering her strength. Her room was dark, save for the ding embers of a fire that was glowing in the grate. Her door was not shut, and a thin strip of candlelight fell through the crack and onto the carpet. Her ears still buzzed, but she could make out the hushed voice of Raoul.

"I see, doctor. Are you quite sure?"

"I am afraid so," a second, familiar voice answered softly. It was a kind voice, calm and soothing. It brought to mind wire-rimmed spectacles perched upon a distinguished nose, a neatly trimmed mustache and eyes that crinkled in the corners when he smiled.

"I fear that her lack of sleep and consistent withdrawal into her own mind are indeed becoming worse. I won't know for sure until I can examine her properly."

"I...am sure that can be arranged, once she has recovered."

"Yes. Once she has rested."

Christine heard Raoul begin to open her partially closed door, but the doctor stopped him.

"I am curious, Monsieur Viscomte. The name she was calling out earlier, in her delirium. Who is Erik? She has never mentioned this name to me before."

Tears stung her eyes. _Erik. Her secret; her angel._ The image of bright blue eyes, filled with wild fear still swam before her eyes. She would know those eyes anywhere, in any time or place. Yet had she imagined the whole thing? Was she truly losing her mind? Living only in memories, with ghosts and echoes? She heard Raoul give a deep, sad sigh.

"He...he was a dear friend of hers. He died, recently."

"And was this friend also hurt by the man who called himself the _Phantom_?"

Raoul paused, and Christine could feel his misgivings.

"I will let Christine tell you of it, doctor. All I can say is that she once had a friend truer than any I have ever known. And then, the _Phantom_ destroyed him. That is all I can tell you for now. The rest, belongs to her."

"As you say, of course. I will be in touch."

"Thank you. Please, forgive me—"

"Not at all. I will see myself out. Goodnight."

Christine heard light footsteps walking away down the hall, and then her door opened fully and Raoul, candle in hand stood in the doorway gazing at her.

She tried to muster up the strength to call out to him, but the words never made it past her lips. Her childhood friend stood in the doorway for a moment, then head bowed, slowly and quietly shut the door, obviously thinking she was still asleep and not wishing to disturb her.

She awoke again sometime later, but this time there was no flickering fire or soft glowing candles. Her room was dark, and only the moonlight casting cool, silver shadows on the walls afforded any light.

She had slept, but it had been a dreamless sleep—a black abyss. A blessing and a curse. She felt as though she had weights attached to her limbs, but despite her discomfort she sat up, and swung her feet to the floor and into her slippers.

Memories of a whispered conversation outside her doorway returned to her.

 _Her withdrawals seem to be getting worse..._

 _Won't be sure until I examine her..._

 _Who was Erik?_

 _He was a dear friend, and the Phantom destroyed him..._

Rubbing a hand across her temple, Christine glanced at her bedside table and saw the perfect, red rose Raoul had brought her that morning. She felt like an eternity had passed since the start of the day, a day when she had escaped for a moment, and had felt free. And then, she had seen those eyes... _his_ eyes. She must have idiotically fallen asleep in the river, and the thought that she had been so recklessly close to death _should_ have frightened her.

It had been foolish, she knew. And yet...

She could have sworn those blue eyes were real, his arms, his heartbeat. Reaching out, she picked up the rose and brought its velvety petals to her nose. It still retained its thorns, and she was careful not to prick herself. A bubble of laughter rose in her throat at that; what a ridiculous reaction to have! Worrying more over a pricked finger than ending life belly-up in a watery grave. It was the kind of incongruity that would have made _him_ laugh, too.

Feeling suddenly restless, she rose to her feet and shakily, and made her way to the window. The moon hung full and heavy in the sky, supported by a few tendrils of pale cloud. As her gaze swept the dark courtyard below, she felt her whole body suddenly tense.

Beneath her window and bathed in shadow stood a tall, cloaked figure. Instantly, her fingertips pressed against the window pane, her breath coming out in short, rapid gasps that misted the glass and distorted his shape.

Her savior was gazing directly at her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three:** Cold Water **  
**

* * *

Christine didn't blink, for she was afraid the moment she did he would vanish. "Don't go. Don't go," she mouthed, willing him with all her soul to hear her silent plea.

The figure continued to stare up at her window. She knew its silhouette. Christine felt a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding leave her in a rush. Turning on her heels, adrenaline pumped through her veins as she sprinted for the door, barely stopping to grab her night shawl that lay across the bed covers.

Tearing down the hallway, down the stairs and out the door, she found herself darting across the courtyard towards the figure who seemed to blend into the night and evade her searching eyes. Finally, she caught a glimpse of movement just ahead, and with a stab of dread she realized he was turning to leave.

"Wait! Please, wait!" she called desperately, reaching out as though she could hold his image in place. The figure stopped with its back to her, and she saw it wore a long, dark cloak; a broad-broad brimmed hat, and a scarf which obscured most of its face from view. But she didn't need to see his face. She knew it was him. She knew those shoulders, that bearing. The way he stooped slightly, as though used to traveling within places that did not usually accommodate his vast height.

"Are you real?" she exclaimed, breathless from her sprint. The hope in her voice was strong and clear.

The figure's broad back remained resolutely facing her, but the voice that floated over his shoulder was deep, slightly hoarse yet beautiful, and devastatingly familiar.

"Would you prefer I were a ghost?"

Nothing but that voice could have made her entire body react instantly, and without command. Like a sleep walker, she moved toward him. Only a few steps, _one, two_...she was so close, but she stopped even as her heart bid her to throw her arms around his slim waist and never let go. The impact of his words permeated her shock. "No. Of course not," she vowed, the hurt welling within her at complete odds with her euphoria. "How can you say such a thing?"

"How can I not?" came his reply, the harshness in his tone clear. "Her beauty; my life and ruin," he recited with an echo of tenderness though he resolutely kept his back to her.

Christine gazed at him incredulously. She recognized the words. They were from his masterpiece, his life's work. _Don Juan Triumphant._ It was so unexpected, so inappropriate to the situation and yet so wildly like what he would say in such a circumstance, that she made a sound that was a half sob, half laugh. Emotions were pouring through her veins in torrents, a dam broken. His spell was cast, as always. After months of nothing but wisps and shadows, memories and endless, empty loneliness, she was fairly shaking with the force of her feelings. Shock. Joy. Love. _Anger._

"Is that all you would say to me?" she said, her voice breaking slightly. It was a testament to how rarely she used it anymore. "All these months...and not a word. Why?" she asked, her last word soft, imploring. Hurt.

She thought she saw him shift in the shadows, turning slightly toward her.

"I did not mean to cause you pain. Can you believe that?"

"Can I believe you..." she repeated quietly, taking a step towards his back again. But as though sensing her small movement, he took one of his own and kept the distance between them. A memory floated across her mind, of a man crumpled on the floor at her feet, his face in his hands, his whole body trembling.

" _Can you believe me, Christine? I never meant to deceive you—I truly did not. Now you see me as I am—not an angel, but cursed. Can you bare to look at me now? No, of course not. Just—please, I beg you—hate me, loathe me, but do not leave me!"_

"No," she answered simply as the memory faded, and she was presented once more with his tall, broad back. "I cannot believe the word of a man who I once thought my truest friend in all the world—a man who now has not the fortitude to even look at me after I believed him dead."

She felt rather than saw his stature stiffen at her words, a change in the air around them that made her shiver in her shawl, skin tingling beneath her light nightclothes.

"You speak of this _friend_ as though he had a choice," he said, and there was only the hint of a bitter edge to his tone. "And I have only ever had one choice when it came to you; I had to let you go."

"Then why are you here?" she countered, a potent mixture of anger and relief still coursing through her veins.

He was silent for a moment, as though gathering his words with the utmost care and deliberation. When he spoke, his voice held no trace of anger, only longing. "I had hoped that despite everything, I could remain with you just a little longer."

Christine felt tears prick the backs of her eyes, but she held them back as though they were an elixir of strength. She saw his shoulders rise and fall, the only visible indication of emotion she had seen him make since she had called out for him to stop. She did not regret goading him for his reaction was worth it all; it made him human, it made him _alive,_ and she savored it fully.

"It seemed harmless. I would be no more to you than a shade," he continued softly, carefully, as though constructing a house of cards, "a shadow hidden in the corner of your eye. I would take up no more space in your life than that, you see? Couldn't I remain here, in your shadow? You do not use it—you barely notice it's there, with your face always seeking the warmth of the sun. You deserve the sunlight. You _are_ sunlight," he paused, as though gathering himself. "You must see that my request is not extravagant, no, it is such a trivial thing."

His reasoning sounded so logical, so rational. She knew he was desperately trying to convince himself of its truth. "Please," he spoke in a broken breath, and she knew he was seconds away from turning to her, from seeking her gaze and drinking her in just as she would him. "Just let me linger with you a little while. Only a little while longer...until...until you truly become his...then, I will leave. I will leave, and never haunt you again. You will forget me—"

"You're lying," she said gently. There was no accusation in her voice. _You will never leave me._ For a moment he was very still and then slowly, he turned to look at her.

"Yes. I lie."

Joy, anger, an irrational fear that he really was made of smoke and ashes—all coalesced inside her. Before she knew it, she was no longer meager feet away but in his arms. Burying her head into his chest, she reveled in his solid shape although a coil of worry arose within her as she felt how rake-thin he was. When had he last eaten? How long had he followed in her footsteps, oblivious to the needs of his body beyond using it as one would a mechanism, to be wound again and again until finally the wheels and cogs rust, grinding to a stop? The thought of him suffering so was like a hand closing over her mouth and denying her air. Bringing her hands up to his chest, she nuzzled into the slightly scratchy fabric of his cloak, seeking what lay beneath. He smelt of wood smoke and damp earth. Overcome, she brushed her lips above his heart, speaking directly to its steady beat.

"Why?" she asked again, her throat tight, hands balling into fists within his cloak. "Why did you tell me to go? Why did you leave me? I listened to people say you were dead—they said such cruel things!—and I couldn't breathe a word of the man I knew! I wanted to see you so! I feel as though I have been in a dream, yet I do not sleep! And then my waking dreams turn into nightmares, always the same flames, burning me, burning us, and I cannot not save you...I am too late to save you!"

Her voice broke, and she fought for breath as the panic of her unending nightmares flooded back to her, rising up and threatening to drown her. She felt his hands cradling her head, stroking her hair as he whispered soothing sounds to her. Gentling her breath, calming her almost instantaneously.

Months of fear fought against his comfort defiantly, and she shook with the effort to contain it. The weight of the past months was like a current, constantly tugging at her control. She felt adrift in its immensity, until the hands that cradled her head slipped to cup her face between them. His calloused thumbs rubbed the tears she hadn't realized were coursing down her cheeks, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the wave of dread that was pounding against her mind like waves breaking on rocks, leaving only the thought that this could be another cruel trick in their wake.

"Christine, look at me," he said, demanding yet gentle.

She couldn't. She shook her head, her expression filling with pain. She felt him grip her face more firmly and tilt it upward.

"Look at me," he ordered more firmly, though worry and desperation rang clear in his tone. "Please. Look at me, _look_ at me..." he urged over and over, but she shook her head and she heard him release a breath that sounded like a restrained, dry sob.

"I never wished to lie to you," he said thickly, almost angrily, though he brought her head to rest against his chest again with the utmost gentleness. He rested his cheek atop her tousled curls, and began rocking her back and forth in his arms slightly; an unconscious gesture. "I am selfish," he murmured into her curls.

"And foolish. And maddening," she added resolutely, her voice slightly muffled as she pressed her cheek further into his chest. She breathed in his scent, listening to his heartbeat. His closeness had always been her undoing; she wanted to shout and beat her fists in sheer frustration against his chest. How dare he make her choices for her; how destructive his jealous nature was; how selfish he was to let her suffer, yet all she could do was grip him tightly. _Alive. He's alive._

"Yes," he agreed, murmuring into her hair and his voice sounded so lost and wounded that she pressed her lips in a kiss to the cloth covering where his heart beat, not knowing if he could feel her touch but needing to give it just the same.

"I have always been the broken one, Christine," he said quietly, despair tangible in every syllable. It reached out and wove itself around them, and just as he had comforted her not moments before, the pain in his simple admittance gave her the impetus to raise her her head. Opening her eyes, she craned her neck back to look at him properly. Blue eyes gazed down at her, imploringly.

"We are all broken," she said softly, raising her hand to gently tug the scarf away from his face. He did not try and stop her. "We are born whole, and as time passes it takes little pieces of us with it, and we mourn the loss. But you...you have never allowed yourself to mourn. You loathe yourself instead."

His grip tightened slightly, and she continued on, undaunted. So much had shattered when she'd thought him gone—that she would never feel his touch, or hear his voice again—that hidden truths she had never had the chance to speak seemed resurrected, his presence drawing them from her like poison from a wound. "You say you hate the world, yet I know you do not. You hate yourself. I know you do, and it breaks my heart."

His features tensed with anguish, making his expression so raw and unguarded she was amazed that a mask could have ever suppressed such emotion from view. In the darkness, the mottled, misshapen side of his face was swathed in shadow but his eyes were pale and bright; she could see tears begin to overtake the blue. "I have no more hate left in me. Whatever I am is yours. You know the truth; you were never mine. I have _always_ been yours."

Unable to refrain, Christine reached up and pressed her palm fully to his damaged cheek. "What would you have me do with you?" she asked sincerely. Innocently. She stroked the mangled flesh of his jaw, watching his face reflect such emotion she knew time could crack and slow to a halt, and it would still not be enough. She would never untangle herself from him. An inexplicable measure of her soul delighted in his wild nature, as one embraces an oncoming storm and all the rumbling thunder, crackling lightening and torrential rain that has the power to both invigorate and devastate.

"Keep me," he said thickly, wetness glistening on his skin. His chest rose and fell more rapidly, as he gazed at her with absolute conviction. "As a beast at your feet. A slave. A fool. Just do not—do not send me away," he faltered, and she could see the wet desperation in his intense gaze. As though there were no others in the world but them. It was a look that had haunted her dreams for so long, and sent her blood racing.

"I beg you," he rasped, a deep and pleading growl. "Do with me as you wish," he took a shaking breath, "but do not send me to a place where I cannot find you!" his last words seemed wrenched from him in a dry sob, his hands suddenly grasping her head in a fierce grip as he bent down to press his forehead against hers.

His touch was like flame to dry tinder, its forcible energy sending showers of shattered sparks through her skin, a soldering blaze and suddenly she was born anew. Wrapping her arms instinctively around his neck, she pressed herself as close to his body as she could. He didn't hesitate to pull her into his thin arms. For a long moment they both simply pressed any part of their bodies as close together as possible; skin against skin, hard planes against yielding softness, breath and tears mingling. His face turned toward her, large calloused hands drawing her ever closer until she felt her mind reel with the need to get closer, to sink into him and never return. He seemed to sense her urgency, for he gripped her almost to excess as his name tumbled like a prayer from her lips.

 _Erik._

The growling moan that escaped him could never be confused with that of a mortal, angel or devil. It was bestial. Primal. An equally violent need ignited within her veins, so potent she buried her hands into the hair at the nape of his neck, encouraging him, tempting him.

"I could take you," he rasped against her, his dark head sinking to her breast, seeking skin and scent and _life._ His hat and scarf lay discarded and forgotten on the ground at their feet. Her fingers sought the back of his skull, threading through his hair and pulling him closer. He wore no wig; it was his true hair, sparse in places and shorter than she remembered.

"You hear it too," he spoke into the soft skin revealed by her night-shift. His mouth was just below her collar bone, and even as he shook forcibly, his grip tightened further and his voice became a husky, almost guttural growl. "The music. When all else is quiet. When all light has gone. I've always known. You understand. From the moment I saw you, I knew you heard it too," his fingers softened their grip, and gently began stroking the sensitive flesh along her collar bone. Caressing. Commanding her blood to rise, her breath to shiver. Playing her, like the virtuoso he was. The same notes, over and over.

 _Yours. Mine. Ours._

He bent his head and she felt his warm lips brush across the wild pulse at her throat.

 _Mine._

Christine gasped, heat pooling in her cheeks, her breasts, her belly. Boldly, she found herself instinctively arching closer to his magnetic touch. Always closer, always parched for his touch, feeling it dragging her ever downward.

"I won't let you go," he said, mouth against her neck, his words a threat but his mouth soft, gentle, reverent. "Not even if you beg me to return you to him."

Whether they were empty threats, she didn't know; his voice was unraveling, control now only a silent flickering flash of intent. He was so tall, he stood doubled over and it was quite a sight to see such a small, petite woman supporting a man thrice her size; a man who was threatening to kidnap her, to whisk her away from her fiancé and a life of luxury.

Exhilarated clarity washed over her. He had let her go, yet she had never wanted to be set free. He had taken that choice from her. He had taken her choice, and now, she was going to take his.

"Then take me," she whispered urgently, injecting her voice with all the need coursing through her body. She stroked the shaved hairs at the nape of his neck, her lips speaking against his temple. She felt him exhale sharply against her neck, his every muscle tightening reflexively. There was no mistaking her duel-meaning. Brazenly she hurtled on, drawing on that part of herself that lay just beyond a silken veil of secret fantasies and desires—a part of herself that had been given shape within his gloved hands as he had once held her against him, singing of endless night and surrender, his voice weaving a spell that had never lifted.

She wanted the storm to break and bask in its deluge.

"Erik," she murmured huskily, and felt a heady rush of power when she felt him trembling beneath her touch. Her mouth found his ravaged, twisted cheek and lay claim to it, pressing an aching, possessive kiss against the roughened skin.

His entire body seemed to tense and coil, her back clasped between his large hands, his grip tight. Raising his head to look at her in astonishment, his eyes were first occluded by shock, then overtaken by such an intensity she felt her entire body shiver with awareness.

The power she held over him was intoxicating.

His hands slid up her spine and into her hair, fingers tangling in her inky curls to draw her head gently back. She let him. Their eyes met fully. His face was wet with tears, mouth slightly open, gaze incredulous and slightly afraid, as though the sight of her was enough to snap the fragile grip he maintained on his control after so many months of restraint.

Gazing up at him, she felt a smile shape her lips. His eyes immediately dropped to her mouth, and his expression was transformed. Moving his hand from her curls, he brought his gloved thumb to brush against her bottom lip, tracing her smile as though he needed to follow its shape and validate its meaning.

"There is a light in your window," he said, never taking his gaze from her lips. "They will be looking for you." There was no bitterness in his voice anymore, only awe. The world seemed to slow its spin and they were floating together, weightless and unhindered.

"Then we haven't much time," she said, shivering as he watched her mouth form each word, as though he had never seen lips before, and was mesmerized at their design. She waited for him to respond, but for the moment he seemed temporarily robbed of speech and movement beyond tracing her lips with a gloved fingertip.

A series of sounds broke through the night, directly behind them. A door being flung open; voices shouting her name. They acted like a stimulant, and slipping her hand into his and drawing it away from her lips, she began to tug him away from the voice of her fiancé, away from the house. A thrill of excitement and determination shot through her veins, clearing the fog that saturated her mind for the first time in what felt like ages.

It felt like falling. A tidal wave rushing toward her, and she had never thought to feel so alive again.

"Angel," she beckoned, and his eyes lit with blue fire.

"You don't know what it is you ask," it was a warning tinged with rising hunger. Yet she could hear also hear his desperation, straining and yanking at the chains which were barely reining him in.

Her gaze was absolute; determined. "I do."

He let out a short breath through gritted teeth at her vow. "I won't let you go," it was no threat, but the truth. She replied by tightening her grip on his gloved hand, and bringing his fingers to her lips.

"Christine!"

The sound of Raoul's voice, which was steadily moving closer combined with her touch seemed to electrify him. Instantly his eyes enveloped her in a piercing, unyielding gaze that spoke of possession, and darkening purpose.

"You will be _mine,_ " he stated in a low voice, a promise that seemed to crackle in the air between them as he advanced on her.

"Take me," she dared him.

The chains binding his restraint snapped. Gripping her to him, he bent to scoop up the abandoned hat and scarf with quick, lithe grace.

"As my diva commands," he said, his voice etched with that familiar authority she knew so well as his former, ghostly persona.

But he was no ghost; he was Erik. He was as broken as she, and he was hers. Christine's smile shone. Gripping his hand tightly, she allowed him to lead her into the blackness, never once looking back as they fled into the night.

* * *

 **Thank you so much for reading. :) More to come!  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

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His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Cursing his own weakness, he dared a glance over his shoulder at his victim—wondering if like the fated lovers of ages past, one stolen look would send her back to the underworld. The irony of their situation caused his mouth twist into a sardonic frown; how fortunate then that her lover was not dragging her _away_ from hell, but straight into its waiting jaws.

And yet she continued to _smile_ at him, as though all her desires were about to come true.

Releasing a low curse that reflected his inner torment, he kept his grip on her hand fierce and unrelenting. His failure at keeping away from her tore at his heart. Apparently his role as ghost had been as doomed as his role as an angel had been.

 _Damn_ himself for not being able to resist her! He could feel her eyes on him as they traveled through the darkness, a question burning upon her lips but he would not slow down their pace to discover its subject. He was intoxicated by her nearness, the _reality_ of her fingers entwined with his. An irrational triumph mixed with paranoid suspicion spread like a fever, taking hold of what little sanity he still possessed. He dreaded that she might regret her choice. That she had changed her mind, and wanted to return. Erik tightened his grip on her hand unconsciously. Though he had spoken threats, like the selfish creature he was, he knew he would not be able to deny anything— _anything_ —she wanted ever again. At least, that was what he told himself.

 _Selfish. Foolish. Mad._

Despite his vow of abstinence he had broken one of the only noble promises he had ever made in his life; to stay away. To let her live her life in comfort, with a husband who was not broken but whole and who loved her dearly. He had even tried to convince himself that he did not still want to rend the handsome Vicomte limb from limb. In the maze of trap doors and twisted paths that comprised his mind, he tortured himself voluntarily by continuing to hope.

 _Hope._ The one emotion he had never been able to manipulate, purge or distort. It had taken a strength he himself did not fully understand to abandon her that night the Opera burned. He had heard her cries, his name on her lips enough to drive him out into the flames and mob, to die knowing that she had come back for _him._

How many agonizing seconds did he spend amidst the smoke and flames, as his home, the only refuge he'd ever known burned around him? There had been something so melodramatically apt about it all. Of course it would end like this; everything, his work, his possessions, instruments he had made himself, years of accumulated loneliness and madness...all turning to ashes. But _she_ would not.

Was that not how one who had caused so much grief by the selfish nature of their own obsession could redeem themselves in the eyes of their beloved? Let them go? He had spent countless hours reading about it, composing about it—from operas, to plays to poems—but he had never truly understood.

If you loved something with all of your being, with every thought and breath, you should do whatever is in your power to hold onto it. Yet he merely watched the young Vicomte reason with her, guide her away from danger, from _him_ , wrap his arms around her—ah, but it _hurt_!

Tearing his eyes away he had turned his back on the sight. He still did not quite fully comprehend how he'd managed it. It had been as though something else, some power other than his own heart beating, blood pumping had made him move away from her, up, up from the catacombs and from the ashes of his failures.

" _And the stars were shining, and the earth was scented..."_

He remembered the hot sting of tears and his voice nothing more than a broken whisper.

" _The gate of the garden creaked..."_

He could not recall the journey to the world above he had made so many times, always with the same nervous anticipation that was eclipsed by the burning need to be near her. Such a suitor he made! Worthless, hideous.

Yet she would always be there, her smile upon seeing his wretched state more vital than breath.

" _And a footstep grazed the sand...fragrant, she entered and fell into my arms…"_

He had stumbled. He would not recall the scrapes of bruises for what they were—evidence of his weakness. No. Strength. It was only she who could inspire such fortitude, such selflessness from a heart he had so long neglected.

How emptied he had felt. As though he were hollowed and his body moved by the grace of her image alone, which still shimmered before him like a mirage. An after-image of a dream. A gift he did not deserve. _I am yours. Tell me. Tell me what to do, and I will._

He could not say her name. If he did, surely he would not survive. And he needed to survive, if only for a little while longer. Dragging himself forward, he had made sure his longest, if not closest friend and her daughter were safe. Antoinette's horrified expression as she took in his appearance reminded him he must be a ghastly sight indeed.

"It is done," was all he said, his voice a shadow.

She had said nothing, but her eyes always so stern and guarded softened for a moment.

"Go," she had whispered urgently, leaning forward to press her hand against his cheek briefly, an act of affection he never expected to receive. It was enough to prove he had done the right thing.

Still, he had not been unable to simply slip away as the fire brigade and local constabulary descended. Draping an abandoned evening cloak over himself, he had helped the stable hands as they tugged and cajoled the terrified horses out of harm's way. No one looked at him; no one saw anything but another pair of able hands willing to help.

Looking back, the memory of working side by side with other men—it was a surreal experience he would not soon forget.

When the fire had burnt itself out, he had left the charred remains of the only home he had ever known. He barely ate. He composed in his mind mostly, humming to himself and drawing notations in the empty air. With no paper or ink, he had no way of purging his consciousness. No way of emptying the endless torrent of ideas, notes and phrases that kept him in a constant state of fevered agitation. It was most unnerving.

There were also the newspaper headlines, which he grabbed when he could from public dustbins. The press labeled him a merciless killer, and blamed him for the now infamous Opera House fire.

 _Let them; he had been called far worse._

Christine's name had appeared in most articles as well, but thankfully the local papers had painted her as the tragic young heroine, a victim of a monstrous madman's obsession. Each time he saw her name in print a slice of pain shot through him, like a fresh wound. It reminded him that for the time being, he was still amongst the living and not a true ghost.

Sometimes, he would keep an old battered copy just to re-read her name over and over.

 _Sources claim that the madman now dubbed the "Phantom of the Opera" had been most grievously accosting the beautiful songstress, Christine Daaè, for some time..._

A twisted, dark fairy tale. There was tremendous gossip, but ultimately all the publicity would do wonders for her career. The dark mystique of the macabre always tended to gather a crowd—not that she needed rumors and such to claim the role of goddess. Her voice was heaven; his religion. He worshiped at her altar, every beautiful note reaffirming his faith in life.

He was withering away to dust without it.

And still, he found no announcement that heralded the coming nuptial of the beautiful diva, and her handsome Vicomte.

The expectation was unbearable.

The only grace to be found was in his utter devotion to shadowing her footsteps. At first, it had been through the newspapers following the sensational event. Then once the clamor had died down, and as is with all sensational things in Paris, the story had grown a bit stale he had grown desperate.

So he had returned to the opera house, a beggar dressed in ragged clothes, an old weathered cap he had managed to scrounge pulled low over his face. And like a miracle, she had been there.

She had been among the few volunteers to assist with whatever she could in the aftermath. The fire had completely decimated the back quarter of the building, but it was still salvageable. He had watched unseen as she labored until her bones were weary and she was covered from head to toe in dirt and ash.

It had been slow torture. How he had wanted to touch her!

No gowns or finery. Just a plain pair of workman's clothes that garnered her quite a few disapproving looks and murmurs from the management, and a grudging kind of bemused respect from the work crews.

More than a few times he had even blended into the crowd, cleaning through the piles of torched rubble, soot covered and garbed as just another workman in dirty clothes. So disguised, he had been able to bask in her nearness even though he never dared get too close. His body though weakened gained strength if only while in her presence, and while he was covered in soot, his cap pulled low over his eyes and a handkerchief hiding his face he suspected if he got too close she would somehow sense him.

If their eyes met, she would know.

It had been a close call. Once, as she had offered the sweaty tired workers water on a particularly hellish day, he had almost allowed her to approach him. He slipped away as she offered a kind word and smile to each man she served, covered in grime and ash but infinitely desirable. If possible, even more resplendent than when she had shone like a beacon of purest moonlight, glittering stardust and unearthly splendor upon the stage, while beguiled patrons drank sparkling champagne from her slippers.

As he had vanished into the shadows once more, his heart tormented him with a simple truth.

He had fallen more deeply in love with her than he had ever thought possible.

Terrified that he would not be able to keep his promise to never reveal himself to her again, he had valiantly tried for two whole weeks to stay away completely. By the end of the fourteenth day he was so emaciated, his mind so disorganized that he nearly walked into the nearest police station to give himself up gladly to the noose.

He couldn't think straight. Words came out in a jumble of librettos—the first words he had ever learned to decipher on paper—and he had even taken to falling back into his native tongue, a language he had not uttered since he left the fairgrounds as a boy. He needed her. More than water or food. More than the music now tormenting his every breath with memories of her face, her eyes wide and dark and her lips, parted as she gazed at him with the same look that drove him to the brink.

 _Tell me a story, Erik. Tell me anything. Everything._

 _Sing to me._

When he had discovered her whereabouts, he was barely able to walk. He made it half-way to the de Changy estate before collapsing on the roadside, under the cover of trees and dangerously close to the marshlands. When he had woken, it was to see a face he had not thought he would ever see again.

"Erik?" Christine's voice cut through his brooding like a beam of purest sunshine. Just a few more yards and they would be truly within the deeper part of the woods that lined the huge estate. Yet as always, Erik's impatience won out and before he could stop himself he was looking back over his shoulder at her.

How could he have ever believed in hell when there were eyes and a mouth such as hers?

"We must hurry," he rasped, tugging her hand urgently. "This was folly. I have put you in danger, for there is still a price on my head—such as it is."

"I am not leaving you," she replied, stubbornly. He felt her hand squeeze his reassuringly, and his heart expanded painfully inside his chest; had he ever thought to feel its presence again? Since he had left her to a new life, it had been a mere cog, a clockwork piece that pumped blood through his body and kept his limbs from sinking into the earth never to rise again. Now, it beat wildly as though trying desperately to leave his chest and nestle into the one place it sought above all others—her hands.

"You may yet regret that," he muttered to himself, half-awed, half-frustrated by her steadfast loyalty. He was battling himself, his need for her versus what he knew to be best for her welfare. Yet he could not bring himself to let go of her hand, or to turn back. He stalked ever forward, keen eyes gauging how far ahead the deepest woods were from their current position. Not far; good. If a search party was being assembled, which it undoubtedly was, they would be long gone before anyone could trace their path.

They moved in silence for a moment longer before a thought struck him.

"Show me your feet," he suddenly demanded, rounding on her and avoiding her upturned face with the greatest effort he was capable of making. If he was resigned to kidnapping her so be it. But he would be damned if she were going to catch a cold as well.

Lifting her long, trailing nightdress, he could feel dark eyes regarding him curiously. The sight of her pale ankles sent a stab of heat through his body, racing through his veins and tensing his every muscle.

 _God!_ She really was going be the death of him.

Taking a deep breath he hoped she did not notice, he gazed down at her bare ankles. The dainty, thin satin slippers she wore were already covered in mud and wet through. Without another word he lifted her off the ground and into his arms, wrapping his heavy cloak around her. She gave no protest, eagerly sliding her slim arms about his neck.

He was unprepared for the feeling of her pressed against his body with no cloak to mute her heat and shape. Every fiber in his being rejoiced; how she fit against him to perfection! For every harsh, ungainly angle his body presented she seemed to fill it with her sweet softness. His knees nearly buckled at the sensation.

"Erik?" he heard her soft, sweet voice ask, completely oblivious to her captor's current plight.

A rather undignified grunt was all he could manage as he forced his numb legs to move forward again. He was still reveling in the sound of her speaking his name once again, and every time she did it felt like a physical blow of the most blissful kind.

"Where are we going? Back to the opera house?"

Her innocent question sent a ripple of fondness through him, calming his baser instincts to break his fast and take, taste and touch her. To indulge in every feverish fantasy that had swirled throughout his mind from the moment he had first realized he loved her beyond reason.

" _Pitiful!"_ he thought angrily at himself. Could he not control his impulses for more than mere seconds at a time? Trying to focus on her words, and not the unconscious stroke of her fingertips against the back of his neck, Erik took a moment to master himself before replying.

"No. I would never take you back there unless you wished it. We are going somewhere else. Somewhere safe."

" _For now,"_ he thought with rising dread. He was wanted by the gendarmes. The man-hunt although proceeding more slowly than before, was still far from over. And what of Christine? What did she think of him? Did she think him a murderer, a lunatic as the papers so eloquently described him? The thought pained him more than a thousand beatings.

As if sensing his turbulent thoughts, Christine said nothing more and simply rested her head against his chest, nuzzling her nose against his throat. _So trusting. Yet do you deserve it?_

They traveled in a comfortable yet careful silence, lest they create too much noise and alert a potential danger. Erik focused all his energy into making his way through the thick woods as quickly as he dared with her in his care, keeping sure that his footfalls were light avoided the muddier paths—anything that could be used to track their progress.

As he focused on his task, he let his mind slip into a state of purest survival, racing through possible scenarios while contingencies formed without effort or will. This is what he excelled at; surviving one more day. At least, he'd thought he had been surviving until he met her. Now he realized he only breathed because she felt he was a worthwhile vessel for life to dwell in.

"We keep to the wetter ground," he instructed softly, his chin tickled by the curls atop her head as she nestled closer against his chest. It made his body feel strange, as though he were suddenly able to feel every beat of his heart amplified, every contraction of his muscles alive like never before. "They—they will more than likely employ hounds to aid their search for you. As I'm sure you know, a dog has an incredibly evolved sense of smell—but water masks the scent. Throws him off the trail. And a good hound will keep searching for the trail for days, without food if necessary. It is their instinct."

"How sad," he heard her mumble sleepily into his neck, her breath sending a shower of sensation through his limbs. "I don't want them to use hounds; I do not wish them to suffer."

He could feel her mouth as she spoke against his skin. Innocent. Trusting. His body gave a tangible throb, and he stopped in his tracks, nearly overcome with the power of it.

"Sometimes there are things worth suffering for," he said softly, unable to resist as he bent his head and felt the hairs on the top of her head tickle his nose. He inhaled deeply. For a moment, he closed his eyes and all else faded away. It was just them, alone in the wild, wet darkness. She was in his arms and it was beyond the sweetest suffering he could have ever imagined.

"My heart breaks for you," he murmured against her temple, indulging in the sensation of his scarred lips brushing against the soft skin of her forehead. "To be someone's reason for existence by the mere beating of your heart. You never asked for this, yet you have never once reproached me for it—my weakness. Without you, I feel nothing. I am _nothing._ "

 _Nothing but nightmares and a shattered carcass._

He clenched his eyes shut against the rising wetness that stung sharply, waiting for her agreement, for her to finally see him for what he was; pathetic and weak. Broken. Cursed and scarred. He waited, not daring to even draw breath as he prepared himself to feel her pulling away. He no longer had the will to fight and loathe himself for craving even these cursed tokens, as long as they came from her. He did not deserve her love, and yet he coveted it with the tenacity of a man hell bent and resigned to burn.

It was insanity; and he reveled in it. Yet his impassioned speech was met with silence, his body tensed for a blow that never came.

Trying to slow the hammering of his heart, he risked a glance down at his cargo. Her dark head was bowed, but he could feel the steady rhythm of her breathing deep and even, a snuffling sound rising from her hidden lips.

She had fallen asleep.

The knowledge both gave him both immense relief and frustration, his body still thrumming with unreleased tension. For a moment, he allowed his lips to brush the top of her head. Another secret, stolen pleasure. Then, making sure his movements were even more careful and trying not to jostle her, Erik continued on his way to safety.

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 **The libretto Erik recites is from Puccini's opera Tosca. Thank you so much for reading :) Any comments or reviews are always welcome.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

It was the low, yet sharp sound of knuckles wrapping on wood that woke her. Starting, Christine instinctively tightened her hold on his neck and felt his lips against her forehead, soothing her.

"It is alright," he said reassuringly.

As if on cue, the door swung open and the tiniest, most wizened looking old man blinked up at them through one eye suspiciously. He looked like an aged, gnarled tree stump, his skin rough looking, like bark. Thick white hair covered his head, and he had an equally white beard that was braided in a long plait. Christine was immediately reminded of a _tomte,_ a gnome from the stories of her childhood. _Tomtes_ were said to leave gifts, and every year her Papa had left her a trail of sweets along her bedroom floor, saying that the little creatures had visited in the night while she had been sleeping.

The little man eyed her with undisguised wariness. When he spoke, his voice was deeper than she would have ever imagined—rich and melodic with a foreign accent that seemed vaguely familiar, but that she couldn't quite place. It made her take an instant liking to him, despite his surly scowl.

"I've told you," he said admonishingly, "pay me your rent in _francs_ , you brute. What do you call this?" he demanded, gazing up at them both in obvious exasperation. He stood no more than four feet tall but he met Erik's gaze challengingly, making it abundantly clear that if he didn't get a satisfactory explanation, he might bend them _both_ over one knee. His authoritative, grumpy countenance made Christine rethink her _tomte_ theory.

"Sheis _not_ payment. She is my...guest," Erik stated defensively, gripping Christine in his arms a little more tightly. An awkward silence followed before Christine decided that proper introductions were dictated even in a strange situation such as this.

"How do you do?" she said with all the proper grace and politeness Mme. Giry had ingrained in her from her earliest days in the _corps de ballet_. Of course it was rather difficult to do a proper curtsey while enfolded protectively within Erik's arms.

The old man studied them carefully through narrowed eyes. "Well, you and your _guest,"_ he emphasized the word as though he didn't quite believe it, "better come in, before the rain. There's a storm brewing."

Waddling away from the doorway muttering, the old man disappeared into the little stone cottage and Erik followed, stepping over the threshold.

It was small, and in the warm glow afforded by a few stuttering oil lamps she noted it was impeccably tidy. A square room greeted them with a well-worn Persian carpet on the wooden floor, a table with two chairs, a brick fireplace with two armchairs facing it, and a rickety wooden table placed between them. Christine recognized both the Persian rug and one of the armchairs as Erik's—she remembered them clearly from his home beneath the opera house. She wondered how they survived the fire, hoping fervently that perhaps his organ, piano and violin had survived as well, however unlikely.

A tiny kitchen lay to the right of the front door, brass pots and pans hanging from hooks and gleaming in the soft light of the single candle the little man was clutching. He was now making his cumbersome way toward a darkened doorway that led off the room; Christine wondered if more rooms lay beyond its veil. She saw the old man limp heavily, and with each footfall something heavy sounding clunked and echoed in the quiet room. One of his legs was made of wood. It looked very painful. Christine felt a rush of sympathy.

"I'm going back to bed," he declared over one shoulder, "I am too old to be playing chaperone, and too tired at the moment to truly enjoy saying _I told you so_. Goodnight Erik, and _guest_."

And with that, he disappeared beyond the dark doorway.

Christine gazed up at Erik questioningly, about to inquire who the grumpy man was, what he meant by I _told you so_ , and where exactly they were when all thought ground to a halt, never making it to her tongue.

"You're wet," he said, his voice barely audible and his eyes boring into her with an intensity that made her shiver. They were so close, all it would take was a tilt of her head and she would be able to taste his words rather than simply hear them.

"And cold," he stated before she had a chance to reply. His voice, though only barely above a whisper seemed to echo in the empty room. "I'm afraid my cloak did not suffice."

Suddenly, he was setting her down on the ground and striding away from her. He reached one of the arm chairs where a quilted blanket lay, pulled it into his hands and strode back to her, depositing it around her trembling frame. His hands lingered at her shoulders as he adjusted it, making sure no bare skin was exposed to the cool air. For a fraction of a second, his gaze dropped to her mouth.

"Erik—" she began, but then he was releasing her and striding into the kitchen, pulling down implements and lighting the stove.

"Tea," he was murmuring absently, not looking at her. "Hot tea. We must get you warm. Yes. I will prepare a cup of tea, then light the fire." He sounded as though he were speaking to himself, but suddenly his sharp blue eyes were on her, pinning her to the ground.

"Please," he said, and she couldn't help but feel a great tenderness at his formally polite tone. Cherished memories of her first visits to his underground home swirled before her. He had been immaculate, then. Always clean-shaven, suit and cravat impeccable. At times, his neatness was most intimidating.

Gazing at him now, his natural hair cropped shortly, face shadowed with stubble, cheeks pale and hollowed. Gaunt. And above all else, _no mask._ Christine was pleased he had not worn one, replacing it with the scarf instead—yet for some reason she could not name, its absence seemed somehow ominous. She still noted the way he carefully tried to keep the mottled side of his face turned away from her at all times, the way he avoided direct light, even the soft muted glow of the lamps. The angry redness of his deformity was stark in contrast to his overly pale, ashen skin. His misshapen, nearly collapsed cheek bone and nose still looked like poorly melted candle wax. Christine felt her curiosity at who the cranky little man with the wooden leg was increase; other than herself and Mme. Giry, she had never known Erik to show his face to another living soul.

 _Living soul._ The accusations against him still rang in her ears. _Madman. Extortionist._

 _Murderer._

"Have a seat while I prepare your drink," he said gently, as though sensing her dark musings. "Anywhere you like."

"Thank you," she said, and meant it. Taking a seat in the nearest armchair, she felt her feet and body sigh gratefully as the cushions sank comfortably under her weight. Hands clasped in her lap, more to prevent them trembling than the need to appear refined, she watched him move about the kitchen noiselessly, his movements practiced and deft. It reminded her forcefully of how much she had missed the grace of him, whether he had a violin in his hands, or a piano beneath his fingertips. An ink pen held between his teeth as he composed, pausing to catch it now and then to scribble on endless pages.

 _A hand on her thigh, her skirt bunched within his fist, gliding it higher._ Would he still tremble she wondered, if he were to touch her that way again?

Pushing down that particular query with flushed cheeks, she asked "How long have you lived here?" trying to sound conversational.

"Since you moved into the estate," he replied bluntly, busying himself with a copper kettle. Christine tried to quash the jolt of hurt that rose within her at his flippancy. All that time, all those months and he was here. _Alive._ Did he truly think it had not affected her, thinking he was dead? Burned in the fire that nearly destroyed them both? Forcing herself to remain controlled, she glanced about the room, calming herself by taking in every tiny detail.

There was only one aged photograph tucked against the mantel, of a child with a sweet, if not sad smile.

"Your friend," she asked, thinking of the little old man and his wooden leg. "You have known him long?"

He didn't respond for a moment, then carefully he replied "Yes. I had not seen him in years, and it was coincidence that he happened to live nearby. Convenient for me, if not for him. That was his daughter."

Christine's gaze flew back to him, and saw he had paused in his preparations and was staring at her.

"She is very pretty."

His expression was inscrutable. "Yes, she was."

"Was?" she asked, sadly. The girl had sweet, gentle eyes.

"Yes."

"I am sorry," she said softly, catching the sorrow he was unable to hide as she watched his profile. He let out a short breath, the barest hint of a grim smile touching his lips. "I know you are. You would be."

She felt her cheeks begin to burn anew; the adoration was raw and unguarded in his voice.

"You are always kind," he said softly, almost to himself.

Christine dropped her gaze to her folded hands, embarrassed but filled with nameless tender emotions. "You are kind, too."

Erik's expression darkened. "No. I am not kind."

"You are," she insisted gently. "You forget—we have been friends for nearly ten years now. I do not think it too forward for me to say that I know you."

She knew that _friends_ was not the right word to use when they were something so much more undefinable. The lines that had constantly been drawn between them were endlessly changing; always being redrawn. Both of them pushed the other, yet when it was more important than ever he believe her faith in his goodness, she could tell he was drawing inward, closing himself off.

"You obviously do not agree with the newspapers account of my character then," he said wryly, but she could hear the self-deprecation in his tone. The self-loathing.

"I trust that the man I knew," she replied, "and believe he will explain his actions when he is ready to. I thought you dead. We do not have to answer to anyone tonight. Even ourselves."

He nodded once, but said nothing. She could see emotions play across his face; fear, guilt, despair and suffering. Hope. She thought of his mask, at how much he had been able to hide from her until she had grown bold enough to return his unwavering stares. His eyes, like his distorted face, were intensely expressive. Penetrating. Those eyes had changed her life.

"Here," he had made his way to her side, holding out a steaming cup set upon a small saucer. In his other hand, he had a plate of what looked like biscuits.

"Thank you," she said, accepting the cup. Their fingers brushed together, and she forced a smile that was far more serene than she felt. He watched her intently until she took a sip.

"Is it sweet enough? We have no cream. I...I could fetch you more sugar, if it is not to your liking."

"No, thank you. It is perfect."

"Good," he said and the relief in his voice was nearly tangible. "Good," he repeated more forcefully, before setting the plate of biscuits down on the rickety wooden table beside her chair.

"If you will excuse me a moment," he said rather formally, with a slight nod.

"Not at all," she answered with equal politeness, grateful for the warmth radiating from the teacup to soothe her chilled fingers.

He seemed to debate for a moment more, before turning to disappear into the kitchen. Re-emerging seconds later holding a box of matches, he knelt down by the charred old fireplace and began to coax a spark from the dry logs in the grate. It didn't take him long, and still kneeling on the floor as the flames began to soothe her cold face, he turned to look at her.

"Can I fetch you another blanket—?"

"Oh no, thank you I'm quite warm now."

Silence lapsed between them. Then, with the greatest effort she could ever remember him exhibiting he said awkwardly, "The storm will be welcome after so many weeks of parched heat; I hear it is most disagreeable for the vineyards."

 _Tea. Blankets. The weather._ Had they ever, in all their times together been so properly civilized? Unable to contain it, Christine let out a soft laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"I'm sorry," she managed, his expression of utterly endearing bemusement only causing her to laugh harder. She hiccupped, placing a hand against her chest and trying to regain her composure. "It's just...I thought I'd never see you again. I thought I was going mad, and now here we are in a lovely little cottage in the country, talking of tea and the weather."

"Would it help if I admitted I baked the biscuits myself?"

That did it. Christine let out a loud snort, shoulders shaking with mirth. Quickly, she slapped a hand to her mouth realizing she might wake their grumpy chaperone who was snoring softly somewhere in the back rooms. She regarded Erik over her hand as though begging him to have mercy, to bring some sense of sanity back to their upside down world.

She should have known better.

A slow smile began to spread across Erik's face. Without his mask to hinder it, she noted that when he smiled—truly smiled—his mouth became lopsided. She cherished this secret, hoping with all her heart she would continue to discover more.

"They're delicious," she managed, imagining Erik in an apron and chef's hat, exuberantly whisking whilst humming the scandalous _Habanera_ from _Carmen._ "Perhaps you missed your true calling as a _chef manifique_ ," she added, unable to contain her giggles. When had she last laughed like a child? The sensation was intoxicating, and she felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment and a happiness she thought never to feel again.

Erik let out a half-chuckle, which made her all the more amused to see the way he tried so valiantly to keep his own amusement hidden. "You may be right. Do you recall when overnight the company began to rave about Chef Léon's _beef bourguignon?"_

Christine muffled her laughter with her blanket. "No! Everyone thought it was a miracle! That was _you_? You never told me! How did you manage to get past Léon? The man was an utter maniac with a wooden spoon."

Erik said nothing, but arched an eyebrow at her suggestively, his mouth still shaped in a small, lop-sided grin. He was teasing her.

The tension broke between them in an instant, and the magnitude of their escape and its impact seemed nothing more glorious than the intoxication of adrenaline, and being near each other once again. As thunder rumbled outside the little cottage, they both tried in vain to control their laughter, like two little children sneaking about after bedtime.

Perhaps they were _both_ mad.

Yet it had been so long since they had been close this way together. Natural, unburdened. In this place it seemed so much more natural and easy. No _Opera_ with its responsibilities, managers and hundreds of patrons literally hanging over their heads. No expectations. No _Phantom._ It was quiet, removed, and as more thunder rumbled softly somewhere in the distance, it felt like a quiet prelude. Like the yawning vibration of a pipe organ's refrain; something that seeped inside your very bones and made you feel _alive_.

Erik's face in relaxed laughter however slight was a sight to behold. His eyes lit from within, and like everything else about him it held a musical timbre that was deep and vibrant. It was beautiful.

Sliding from her chair impulsively, Christine bundled her blanket around herself and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him. Slowly, he matched her movements, until they were seated together before the fire, like two best friends telling stories before bedtime.

Mastering themselves, they continued to catch each other's eye almost shyly. Taking a long, blissful sip of her tea, Christine sighed as the hot drink warmed her insides and drove away the chill. When she caught Erik's eye again he was watching her, all traces of shyness gone. Studying her as though every movement she made were of vital importance.

Taking one more sip, she held out the cup to him invitingly.

She saw him hesitate, then slowly reach out and take the cup from her. Goosebumps shot up her arm as his eyes focused on her mouth. Suddenly she was keenly aware of all the places on her body she had ever felt, or hoped to feel his touch. Tingling with awareness and watching as he took a careful sip from her cup, Christine knew she couldn't maintain a respectable distance from him for much longer. There was something scandalously intimate about sharing a drink this way, and though her sleep deprived, muddled mind had accepted that he was truly here with her, now she needed to _feel_ this truth as well.

"Raoul and I are not lovers," she stated without preamble, her cheeks aflame but her gaze steadfast.

A choke; a snort, and then he was coughing, and blanket forgotten she rose from her position on the floor to thump his back helpfully. His face was beet red, whether from her bold declaration or lack of air she couldn't tell. Eyes streaming, he gasped for a moment and tried to collect himself.

"That is...welcome news," he said, his voice a strained rasp. She couldn't help the shiver that passed through her in appreciation of the timbre of his deep voice. She made to touch his cheek with her hand but he caught her wrist, halting her movement. Hurt confusion flickered across her face until he began to pull her closer.

Christine allowed him to draw her forward until she was kneeling in front of him, knees touching his crossed legs.

With all the gentle deftness of a musician used to coaxing heavenly chords from his instrument, his hand left her wrist to skim delicately up her arm. He traced the line of her shoulder, coming to rest at the base of her neck, his fingertips pressing lightly on the pulse that beat there. His eyes slid shut and for a moment they sat in silence, Christine watching his discordant face in the flickering light of the fire, while he felt her pulse beat a steady but rapid staccato against his fingers.

Erik's expression smoothed into serious lines, brow furrowed in concentration. Tilting his head slightly toward her, he seemed to be listening closely to her pulse, her breath—the energy crackling just beneath her skin at his touch—and it was a symphony he was learning, memorizing, rediscovering with each passing moment.

His hand slid from her pulse and began to stroke the column of her throat, his fingers light and gentle, like the innate pressure one might use on a violin string.

"Every moment," he finally said, eyes still closed, "every moment—from my very first, I think—I have loved you."

In the wake of his words, she found breath elusive. "As I love you," she whispered, and her heart stung to see the look of unreserved pain that flashed across his features. His jaw clenched as his large hand slid around her throat encompassing it completely, his touch firm but not restrictive.

Cradling her voice, the instrument he had helped shape, nurture and encourage.

"How?" he asked, sounding both miserable and filled with disbelief. It broke her heart to hear. "How can you love me?"

"Because I am yours," she said simply, softly. He said nothing for a moment, then his eyes opened and they were the colour of a dark, storm-filled sky.

"Could you—I need—" he began, and she recognized the emotional strain and what it tended to do to him. Rendered him speechless, or incoherent. Touch, loving words. They still had the power to bring him to his knees. She knew what he wanted.

Slowly, as one would approach a wounded animal she lifted her hand again and pressed her palm against the mottled, contorted side of his face.

A visible shudder racked his body, his expression pained but he remained perfectly still as his eyes slid shut. She could feel his muscles tensing, the hand on her throat reflexively tightening just a fraction. Then it slipped downward, to rest against the rise and fall of her chest as though needing to feel her heartbeat at its source. She could tell he wished to turn his face away from her touch, years of overwhelming instinct screaming to hide his deformity—yet his body also begged for it. She explored his face gently, almost clinically. Feeling the uneven skin for bumps or sores; getting him at least partially used to her acceptance of his twisted features again. A shaky sigh escaped him, his body deflating slightly as though he had been prepared for a mortal blow. Her fingertips brushed across his temple, then swept downward to what should have been the bridge of his nose, but instead was a mound of collapsed flesh.

She had often wondered how Erik could have such lung capacity, such power in his voice when it was so difficult for him to breathe properly at times. One of the many miracles he was. To Christine, it just proved that his tenacity, talent and God-given gift was more powerful, was so much more than his body could ever contain. The pads of her fingers found the skin just beside his buckled nose to be slightly sticky, and she realized just as he sucked in an almost silent breath of pain that he had the remnants of a deep gash running along the side of his nose.

"Where did you get this?" she asked gently, concerned. She made to pull her hand away, afraid that she had hurt him when he leaned forward into her caress, obviously unwilling to forgo her touch.

"It is nothing," he murmured hoarsely, his eyes opening to regard her. There was shame there. "Just another scar."

Christine felt her heart constrict at his resignation, at the deep sadness in his gaze. It pulled her, drew her in and suddenly she had dropped her hand from his face and was shifting her still damp nightdress off her left shoulder. It slid down, until his hand brushed against the very top swell of her breasts. Offering. Tempting. Once creamy skin now ran in a jagged line from shoulder to the top of her breast, a patchwork of scarred burns, mementos of the fire. She gasped slightly at the sensation of his calloused fingers on the sensitive flesh.

His gaze dropped instantly to her chest, gaze narrowed as he delicately pulled back her nightdress to reveal a latticework of more scars, deep purple and slightly raised. He looked at them incredulously, his fingers ghosting over them as though he couldn't believe his eyes. Then his features twisted with compassion, and when his gaze rose to meet hers she had never seen him look so undone. His eyes were a bright blue, and wet. He said nothing, for his expression said it all.

"Sometimes there are things worth suffering for," she said, repeating his earlier words. He blinked rapidly, then bowed his head. His shoulders shook once, twice. His hand came up to hide his face, but she had already seen the wetness glisten on his cheeks. The suppressed breaths that hitched in his throat.

"I—I am—sorry, so sorry," he managed.

Without thought, she began to sing to him. Softly. A folk song her Papa had sung to her as a child. Soothing. Her voice was his remedy.

His gaze softened, and his breathing calmed. A small unconscious smile shaped his lips. It was heartrending to behold, for it seemed to burn bright then flicker out, as though he were not used to sustaining such contented feelings for long moments at a time.

The damaged side of his face was curiously immobile, the skin too malformed and taut looking to accommodate any discernible countenance, yet she could see he was entranced. When her voice cracked on a rising note, she stopped and bowed her head with a rueful sigh.

"I am out of practice. My teacher would be appalled."

Erik said nothing, his fingers tilting her chin upward, eyes suddenly fierce. Burning. Her cheeks flushed, his gaze somehow more intimate than her bared skin and his caresses. They were close. She could feel heat radiating from his skin.

He tilted his head toward her ever so slightly, cautiously, and then his mouth was touching hers. Softly, barely a brush of breath and warmed skin.

It was the spark that ignited them both.

Within seconds, his hands were cradling her head and she had risen to her knees, arms winding about his neck, fingers buried in his hair. It was bruising, claiming and desperate. She pushed against his body, wanting to be closer, practically climbing into his lap while he drew her to him like a man starved for centuries.

Heat scorched its way through her body, the sensation and taste of him too much and yet not nearly enough. Parting her lips against his she sought more of his taste, seeking something deeper. A growl, husky as it rumbled on the tail end of a groan sent shivers through her body as he picked her straight up and drew her toward him. Her legs instinctively winding around either side of his waist, her weight settling fully into his lap.

Erik swore an oath hoarsely into her mouth. Christine murmured something into his, their lips parting briefly, the sensation of replete contact so blissful it hurt.

Softness against hardness.

She reveled in it, allowing her body to sink utterly against his, her thin nightdress unable to hide the heat of her flushed skin. His hands slid down her neck to tangle in her hair. Drawing her head back, his mouth descended on hers with a thirst that was insatiable.

Christine matched his fervent assault, placing her hands on either side of his face, completely lost and burning with a need she still could not fully comprehend. She needed to tell him. She had said they need not ask any questions tonight, to simply rejoice in the miracle of each other's company once again. But she needed him to understand how much she wanted this. Wanted _him._

"I came back," she confessed, pulling back just enough to speak into his parted lips. "The night of _Don Juan._ The fire. After you told me to leave you. I was hurt, and frightened. _You_ frightened me."

Their lips still connected between her words, between breaths. She felt him lay soft kisses against the corner of her mouth, her bottom lip. At her words, the bruising fever of moments before slowly tempered to a tenderness that made her feel as though she were about to fall apart in his arms, limbs too full and heavy with pleasure and candor as she continued, taking the chance she had thought she would never have.

"I came back to find you. I wanted to tell you..."

She felt his fingers against her temple, gently stroking the soft curls away from her temple, as though he still couldn't quite believe she was real and not a dream.

"Tell me...?" he murmured, brushing his lips against hers dazedly.

"That I would bind myself to you, forever. That I wanted you for my husband."

Of all the many times she had imagined speaking this truth to him, all the days she had carried the words around inside her like a wound, raw and aching; nothing could have prepared her for his reaction to their sincerity.

For a breathless moment, he was completely still.

Then without warning he stood so abruptly she had to scoot backwards to avoid being knocked over. Turning from her he began to pace about the room, a wild energy pouring from his every muscle. Thunder began to clap in earnest outside the cottage now, punctuating his disturbed movements as he clenched and unclenched his fists, pacing the floor like a caged animal ready to strike.

Christine opened her mouth to say something, but instinct cautioned her to keep silent. Reaching the wall furthest from her, he stopped pacing and braced both hands against it, as though it supported his control. She saw his back heaving with the effort, and prepared herself for the painful sound of his fist connecting with solid stone.

But it never came.

"Wildflowers," he managed through clenched teeth. Eyes filled with tears, Christine watched him struggle to maintain his temper. She said nothing, unsure of his meaning but waited patiently for him to continue.

"I gave you wildflowers," he continued, his usually smooth dark timbre now rasping as he fought for control. "For your room. I...had spent weeks growing them from seedlings. I had spent weeks more preparing what I wanted to say to you, _how_ I would ask you."

"Ask me...?" she queried softly, although realization was settling in.

Blowing out a shaky sigh, he turned from the wall and leaned back against it. He didn't meet her eyes for a moment but she saw his jaw tensing, as though trying to eject the words from his throat.

"To marry me," he confessed roughly. Then he let out a short humorless laugh, which carried a hollow note that made her heart ache.

"Weeks," he murmured. "So many, they became years. Years of planning every gift, every moment. Every touch." His face crumpled, but he squeezed his eyes shut resolutely, turning the look of anguish into a grimace of restraint. "I thought I was truly saving you that night by sending you away."

Suddenly he swore savagely, breathing ragged as he shook with anger and grief. "Your scars are my fault. _Mine,_ " he growled, his temper flaring. It burnt out just as quickly and he bowed his head, shoulders sagging with dry, silent sobs he was desperately trying to contain.

"Forgive me."

It was a request. A prayer.

In a matter of seconds she was on her feet, across the room and in his arms. As soon as she touched him he was reaching for her, desperate and inelegant.

Christine wrapped herself around him, hands buried in his hair, lips pressed against whatever she could reach. She could feel them going under, but it was welcome. Tonight, they would reach inside and draw out every emotion that had been denied, and drown in them all.

Tonight, they would find release.

* * *

 **To be continued very soon. Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome.  
**


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